


When All Hope Seems Lost

by zombie_socks



Series: Island of Misfit Boys [4]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - High School, Bullying, Deaf Clint Barton, Foster Care AU, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mob Violence, Past Child Abuse, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, background relationships are way background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 61,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5748427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombie_socks/pseuds/zombie_socks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the third installment in the Island of Misfit Boys series.</p><p>Phil is now running a special needs foster home, meaning Clint has three - sometimes 4 - brothers to hang out with. But being the youngest of them all, and being 13 in general, is tough. And it only gets tougher when Clint's best friend, Natasha Romanov, inexplicably starts pushing him away. But Clint isn't going to give up without a fight. <br/>Meanwhile Tony, Bruce, and Thor set up a dating bet, and Steve just tries to find time to draw or hang out with Peggy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Scene 1**

Barney Barton didn’t understand the squirming, wrinkly thing lying in the plastic box, tucked in between two other things that looked just like it. He’d been told that Mama was doing okay but he couldn’t see her yet. It didn’t make any sense to him, though. Mama had said they were going to the hospital, that his baby brother was coming, but Barney knew his little brother wasn’t due for a few more weeks. And the wrinkly, small thing couldn’t possible be his younger sibling. It didn’t look human and he was sure his daddy wouldn’t let an alien live with them.

“Which one’s yours?” a young man asked. He had a kid with him who was younger than Barney but not by much. The other kid rested her head on her daddy’s shoulder and Barney wondered briefly what that must be like.

The man’s brows narrowed at Barn’s continued silence. “Do you have a baby brother or sister in there?”

“I don’t think my brother is in there,” he answered, pressing his fingers up to the glass. “Mama said I was going to have a little brother to play with, to lead around, to teach stuff to. But I don’t see anything like that in there.”

The man’s frown deepened as he slid his child off his shoulder and sat her down on the bench Barn was standing on. “We’ll he’ll grow up, you know. He won’t be ready to play right away. It takes time. And if your brother is in there then it will take some extra time.”

Barn looked up at him, eyes wide in confusion and wonder.

“He needs to finish baking,” the man supplied.

“Like cookies?”

“I guess so.”

“But then I’ll have to wait for him to cool too.”

The man chuckled and set his little girl on his lap. “That’s one way to look at it.” He cleared his throat. “Sue here as a baby brother in there as well. His name is Jonny. Do you know what your brother’s name is?”

“Clinton. It’s after my grandpa. I’m named after my other grandpa. They’re both dead now so it’s okay that we have their names.”

The man chuckled again. He looked around and even back into the room before asking with a note of concern in his voice, “Where’re your parents?”

“Mama’s still in the room they took her to when we got here. Daddy’s gonna be here soon. The nurse told me to wait here until he shows up. She gave me some animal crackers. I haven’t had any of those before. I thought they’d taste like meat being from animals and all.”

“They’re called animal crackers because they come in animal shapes,” the man explained.

“They didn’t look like no animals I know. But they tasted really good. I wish I had some more. I didn’t get to finish breakfast since Mama had to go to the hospital.”

The man glanced at his watch to make sure he was correct. Yes, it was after five in the evening. Had this boy really been sitting here since that morning? He looked at the boy closely for the first time. He was scrawny, a little dirty; his ruddy hair could really have used a cut.

“My little brother’s going to have blue eyes.”

“Oh yeah?” The man shifted his daughter again who stayed sleeping on his shoulder.

“Yeah. ‘Cause I got blue and my brother’s going to be just like me. He’s due in a few more weeks. That’s why he’s not in there. Also he’s a human baby, not an alien like these ones.”

“Aliens huh?”

“Yeah, that’s why their skins are all wrinkly and they have to have those tubes in them and have ta be stuck with little needles.”

The man felt his heart sink a bit. This poor boy had no idea. His baby brother was a premature birth; his baby brother was getting stuck with little needles, had tubes in him, was fighting for his life with tiny fists and unfinished lungs.

“Charles Barnard Barton, get down off that bench!” a gruff voice thundered as its owner stormed up the hall.

The kid climbed off the bench and kept his head ducked down.

“Now git over here. Where’s your mother?”

The kid shrugged his shoulders and looked terrified that he didn’t know the answer.

“She’s probably been moved to an in-patient room,” the man supplied, clutching his daughter a little closer.

The boy’s father – and that was certainly who he was with his matching red hair – glared at the stranger. “She better not have been. I ain’t paying for that shit.”

The stranger didn’t bother to point out that she’d just had emergency surgery to remove a baby from her before it was time. There was a plethora of complications that could arise from such a situation.

“Charles, git over here.” the man barked.

The boy slunk back into position next to his father. The man put a large hand on his boy’s shoulder and that grip looked nothing like it should. It was far too tight, controlling. It was a leash, a harness. There was no comfort in the gesture.

As the pair went off, the stranger held tight to his daughter and said a quick prayer that that little boy and his early baby brother would be all right. He didn’t know if it was answered, but he felt in his gut that perhaps it didn’t reach the person it needed to.

He said another one anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get some on the boy's histories. Referenced child abuse warnings apply.

**Scene 2**

Phil peeled open his eyes and immediately burrowed in deeper to his soft comforter. His room was chilly, the air tinged with the sudden cold of late October. Winter was coming and it didn’t seem to be easing in slowly.

The annoying blare of his alarm clock had him stirring again, sneaking a hand from under the warm sheets to silence it. It took him more time than he cared to admit to gather the strength and courage to face the cold. Once he did, he slipped on his robe and tucked his feet into some slippers – a Father’s Day gift from Steve back in June – and made his way to the kitchen, yawning more with each step.

“Morning, Bruce,” he greeted sleepily. It wasn’t uncommon to find the fifteen-year-old awake this early already hitting the books. He’d said once that he liked the calm. Phil couldn’t blame him.

Coulson made coffee, a whole pot since Tony was most likely up late working on his latest project. The basement workshop had been the teen’s idea and since he’d donated the money for it, Phil couldn’t really argue. It kept him from having to constantly rebuild the kitchen.

“Chem test today?” he asked Bruce.

The young man shook his head. “No, but I have a meeting with a fellow classmate and we’re going to discuss the functions of polypeptides. I wanted to brush up.”

“Bruce, why can’t you just say you and Betty will be getting lunch like a normal kid?” Tony yammered as he stumbled into the kitchen. Phil passed him a mug of coffee, putting the sugar shaker next to it on the table as Tony poured himself into a chair.

“Because we’re not getting lunch together, Tony. We’re engaging in conversation about a mutual love-”

“Engage, mutual, love… totally selling the platonicity of this.”

“That’s not a word, Tony.”

“Sure it is. I invented it. And I’m an inventor so there.”

“Solid argument,” Phil cut in. He opened the fridge, digging out the eggs and ham. He pulled the bread off the top of the refrigerator and placed it in front of Tony. “Here, be useful.”

The teenager rolled his eyes, but took the bread and started loading slices into the toaster.

“You’re going to have to make some extra eggs,” Bruce instructed.

“Oh?” Phil raised a brow.

“Thor’s on the couch.”

“When’d he get in?” Phil asked with genuine surprise.

“About two thirty. His dad kicked him out again.”

Phil cracked three more eggs into a bowl. Scrambled eggs were easy to divvy up between a large crowd with large appetites.

“Morning everyone,” Steve greeted cheerily as he entered the kitchen and went straight to the fridge to fish out his own bottle of OJ. The guy drank so much of the stuff that in about two days it would be gone. So Phil had taken to just buying Steve one and the rest shared the other.

“Captain’s in the fridge,” Tony announced, standing up and saluting before promptly laughing at his own joke.

“Still not funny, Tony,” Steve stated, coming to sit in the chair Tony had occupied before being put on toast patrol.

“It’s a little funny. _You_ just need to adjust your standards for word play.”

“Maybe you just need to be funnier.”

“Low blow, Rogers.” The toast popped up and Tony started to slather butter onto it.

Phil set a pile of plates in front of Bruce at the table. “Not to interfere with your Nobel Prize, but could you set the table?”

Bruce packed up his book and notebook with a sigh and began to distribute the stack of dishes around the table.  

Whimpering and scratching came from the back door and Phil took a sip of coffee as he went to open it. Lucky charged in and ran upstairs, his internal alarm clock much more tuned than his owner’s. Phil was halfway through his coffee and stirring the now cooked eggs when Clint padded down the stairs, Lucky right behind him. Clint shuffled over to the cabinet by the back door and measured out a scoop of kibble for Lucky’s morning feeding. He dropped the food into the bowl outside and came back in, still wiping sleep from his eyes.

“When did Lucky officially become my alarm clock, Phil?” he asked, slipping into one of the last remaining chairs and laying his sleepy head onto the table.

“Since I noticed it was so effective.” He scooped up some eggs and put them on the plate in front of Clint.

Thor entered the kitchen looking well rested except for a slight strain in his eyes that was typical after a fight with his father. “Good Morning,” he boomed, sliding into the seat next to Steve and snatching some toast from the plate that Tony just put down.

“Daddy dearest troubles, huh?” Tony ribbed.

Thor looked a little dejected at that but nodded. He directed his gaze to Phil. “I apologize for having borrowed your couch again, Phil Coulson.”

Phil shook his head. “It’s no trouble, Thor.” He dished him some eggs from the skillet. “This house is always open.”

“Your kindness is great, Son of Coul,” he replied, digging into the eggs and alternating with bites of toast. Phil grinned at the moniker. Thor’s family had moved from some small principality in northern Europe due to his father’s business, and despite being in America for a few years, the teenager still had mannerisms that he couldn’t shake, and colloquialisms that would’ve fit right in with some kind of Shakespearian play.

“Yeah, Thor,” Tony went on, taking a bite of toast. “Got daddy issues? You’re in good company.”

“Tony,” Phil cautioned but without much sternness. The boys’ histories were not a secret. They all knew about each other’s pasts. Talking about them, though, could easily disrupt the relative calm of the group.

Tony pressed on – as was the Stark way. “What? S’true. Abuse, neglect, general assholeness. Raise your hand if your dad – and yes, Clint, I mean biological father – is dead and you’re glad for it.” No one’s hand went up but Tony’s. “Seriously?” He directed his gaze at Bruce and Clint. “Not even after-”

“Tony,” Phil shot. “Time to shut up.”

The teen obeyed, but grumbled something about ‘getting them to admit it yet.’ Phil shook his head and began to eat. Tony’s anger – usually displayed as brashness – was something they were both working on. The teenager had come to the home a little over a year ago after a terrible accident killed his parents. No one stepped forward to take in the kid, so he’s entered the system. His heart condition listed him as special needs, and having already established a kind of friendship with Clint and Steve, it was sort of a no-brainer taking him in.

Tony was brilliant. But his talkative and irritating nature could be tiresome, especially since it doubled when he was stressed or feeling emotional. He didn’t express his feelings normally, instead choosing to either create something or blow up the kitchen – which was where the basement workshop came into play.

Tony didn’t gain access to his trust fund until he was twenty-one, but the will did state that he got a very generous allowance every month. Tony donated a healthy portion of it to the foster home for food and repairs and maintenance. He’d said once in a rare moment of true honesty that he would give every penny he owned away if it meant he’d never be alone again. That was the true Tony Stark: a lonely child, whose father had degraded and ignored and neglected him, left him alone to face the world. Tony was hurt and Phil knew it. It was why the teen tried so hard to be the most ostentatious, loudest person in the room. He wanted to be noticed. And if that meant prying at his foster brother’s family issues, he wouldn’t hesitate for a minute.

The problem was, those issues were sensitive topics. Bruce, for example, had come to the home only a month or two after Tony. Phil had gotten the call at around five in the morning that Child Protective Services had finally gotten substantial evidence and pulled Bruce out of his home. The evidence happened to be Bruce’s dad killing his mother by beating her to death during one of his rampages. He’d been put into a mental institution and Bruce had entered the system.

Bruce was quiet, extremely intellectual. He and Tony could concoct anything from a new chemical mixture that could keep the lawn from growing so fast to a laundry detergent that could get out stains left from said mixture. They bonded over science, over creating. Tony had a friend, a true friend, who understood him. Bruce had an outlet for his intellect and an equal mind to challenge his. Clint and Bruce got along well enough. A sort of kinship had been there since the beginning since each knew what it was like to be afraid of the man who was supposed to raise and love you. Steve – well, Steve got along with just about everybody. He gave Bruce space when he first came and was supportive of the boy’s tries at art therapy (which was part of his treatment for dealing with his mother’s death and his overall rotten childhood.)

But Bruce was in a special needs home for a very serious reason: anger disorder. He went through spells of intense anger and irritability followed by deep depression, which could double as a trigger. He had begun receiving treatment as soon as he’d come to the home, but he still had a few complications. An incident at school four months ago had sent a kid to the hospital and Bruce had almost tried to kill himself in the week that followed. It had been one the tensest times in Phil’s life, not knowing if he would be able to pull the poor child back from the edge. In the end it was Tony who helped reel him in. And Phil had never been more thankful to have the smart-ass, brash, irritating teenager in his life.  

Thor helped himself to the leftover eggs. Steve put the cap on his bottle of orange juice and stood up to put it in the fridge. Tony snatched up the last piece of toast but split it with Bruce who had given him a slightly pleading look. Clint was still focusing more on waking up than anything.

Phil smiled at that. His little boy was growing up, slipping out of boyhood and into a teenager. He was the only one of the boys still in middle school, seventh grade, but he was starting to act like his foster brother’s more and more each day. He was growing, gaining some height and filling out – and with that came constant tiredness and continuous hunger. His voice had started to change, transitioning from treble to tenor with many squeaks and cracks in between. He’d had to call Tony out on teasing Clint about it more times than he cared to count.      

But Clint’s sleepiness was also from the anti-epileptics he’d been started on a while back. Dr. Streiten had referred Clint to a specialist, Dr. Cho. She’d ordered a battery of tests including an MRI, and blood work. She also ordered an ambulatory EEG be done to test for sleep seizures. Clint had a bunch of leads glued to his head and then endured a hyperventilation test – which came with a terrible headache. It had been uncomfortable and inconvenient hauling the EEG recording device, but Clint had been more worried about being made fun of for the pads and wires dangling from his head. He’d begged that he wouldn’t have to go to school while wearing it, but Dr. Cho wanted a reading on a normal day, and that included time spent at SHIELD elementary. Phil thanked God for Clint’s best friend Natasha Romanov, who had threatened anyone who’d even looked at her friend strangely.

The prescribed medicine that came from the test had definitely helped – Clint hadn’t had a tonic clonic seizure in months – almost a year – but they wore him out even more than his growing body already did. Phil had noticed the boy’s grades starting to just slip. But Dr. Cho had said some of the sleepiness would fade once his body got used to the medication.

Phil picked up his plate and rinsed it off in the sink. “Clint,” he addressed before turning around and switching to signing once the boy was looking at him. “ _I’m leaving in ten minutes. Be ready.”_

Clint rolled his eyes but sighed back, “ _Okay.”_

Steve had watched the conversation and stood up to clean off his own plate. “And I’m leaving in fifteen,” he announced. “So anyone not wanting to ride the bus needs to be ready by then.”

It still surprised Phil sometimes that Steve could drive. The teen was sixteen, but it still caught him off guard. It didn’t seem all that long ago when Steve was still gangly and thin, riding his bike in the park and looking like the breeze was going to knock him over. But his doctor, Dr. Erskine, had put him on a new regimen to get his asthma and diabetes better managed, and coupled with puberty, Steve had grown over a foot and a half in three years and put on several pounds of muscle. Thor had tried many times to get the other teenager to join the football team, but Steve didn’t want to push himself – although he did make the baseball team and took up boxing with his friend Sam Wilson at the Treehouse. Steve, though, still spent most of his time in the art room and even had a piece that he’d entered in a national competition up for an award.

“Can I drive?” Tony begged.

Steve shut him down with a quick and stern, “No,” and proceeded to ignore the bullshit list of excuses Tony supplied in defense of his plea.

“Tony,” Bruce interjected, “you’re not even old enough for your permit.”

Tony crossed his arms. “Rub it in my face, Mr. I’m Fifteen and On My Way to Freedom.”

“Meds,” Phil interrupted as he went to his room to change clothes.

Bruce grabbed the large box from the cabinet and set it on the table. Tony stood behind him and pretended to roll up his sleeves. “Step right up, gentlemen. I’ve got the cure for all that ails you.” He gently moved Bruce aside and took charge of the collection of prescription bottles. “A low dose of benzodiazepine for you sir,” he drawled as he tossed the bottle to Bruce. He read the next label. “How about some new fangled Erskine’s formula for you, sir, in the back.” He pitched the large brown container of supplements to Steve. “Don’t forget to stop at the nurse for your insulin,” he added as Steve popped the large, bluish pills.

Tony went on, “Some carbamazepine for the little one.” He slid the bottle on the table towards Clint who glared him down. “And last but not least, some procainamide for me.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and collected everyone’s bottles before heading upstairs to finish getting ready.

Thor helped clean up breakfast since he’d drove the night before and was basically ready to go, seeing as he’d slept in his clothes from the previous day. He’d change into the spare shirt he had in his gym locker once there.

Clint tossed a T-shirt on his bed and frowned at it. He’d lost a lot of clothes in the past few months due to his growth spurt. But the fact that his favorite purple shirt no longer fit him was upsetting. And it bothered him more than he knew it should. But he liked that shirt and now what was he going to wear and-

“You okay?” Steve asked as he changed his clothes, tugging a light blue shirt over his head, tugging once at the top seams to get it to sit squarely.

“Doesn’t fit,” Clint grumbled, dropping to his knees to search under his bed for his shoes. With luck those would fit today.

Steve frowned before offering, “Here, wear one of mine.” He tossed Clint a grey-olive shirt that was next on his clean laundry pile. Clint tugged it on and sagged his shoulders at the practical tent that swallowed him up. He checked his bedside table clock and groaned when he realized he only had four minutes left to brush his teeth and pack his books and meet Phil at the door. So he accepted the too large shirt and ran to the bathroom, hoping Bruce and Tony weren’t hogging the sink.

Bruce dashed out of his and Tony’s room – they’d taken Phil’s room across the hall and Phil had moved to the spare office downstairs – just as Clint got to the sink so he only had to fight one person for usage.

He was still tugging on his shoes when he met Phil at the door. The man stared at his son with a raised brow.

“ _What_?” Clint asked, signing.

“ _Is that Steve’s shirt_?”

“ _Mine was too small_.”

Phil grabbed his keys. “ _You forgot to comb your hair.”_

Clint ran his fingers through it. “ _Better?”_

Phil sighed, grabbed his travel mug and motioned for Clint to load up in the car. “Don’t forget to lock up,” he called into the house. He shut the door, checked that the backyard gate was closed to keep Lucky in, and made his way to the car.

Clint was quiet on the way to school. Normally there was some signing between Phil and his son, but today they sat in silence. The boy had been relatively quiet at breakfast too. It wasn’t _concerning_ but Phil… well Phil missed their usual chats.

And it was just him and Clint now. Steve took the other boys to SHIELD High School, which was a little further west than the K-8 elementary. Maybe it was just the particular day, or maybe Phil was feeling nostalgic, or maybe he was a bit worried; Clint still looked really tired.

“You okay?” he asked.

Predictably Clint nodded. “I’m fine, Phil.”

“You look a little tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You know the doctor said the medicine might make you drowsy for awhile. If you-”

“I’m _fine_.” He sighed deeply and went back to looking out the window.

Phil let it drop. He’d been through the “I’m fine” stage with both Bruce and Tony and even Steve. So he knew that it really meant for him to butt out, that they weren’t ready to talk yet. But it hurt more this time.

Clint was his little boy. The others had arrived as teens, but Clint…

He parked the car and Clint was out and trudging towards the school before Phil even had the engine killed. He sighed as he watched his son sling his book bag over his shoulder and stuff his hands in his pockets, bunching up the too big shirt that reminded Phil distantly to take the kid clothes shopping soon.

Clint was growing up. He couldn’t stop that.

So why did he want to so badly?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait on this thing. But I got it done! Thank you all so much for your insane patience!  
> (And thank you to anonymous who gave me several pointers on Clint's condition.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Scene 3**

Clint stalked into the mundane school hallway and went straight for his locker. He spun the combination with practiced ease and gathered his books for his first class. As he closed the locker door he glanced down the hall past the sea of people scrambling to make it to class. He spotted her red hair easily. He pushed past the accumulating crowds plugging the halls like plaque in those CG arteries they showed on advertisements.

“Hey, Tasha,” he greeted as cheerily as he could manage.

“Oh, hey,” she responded, coolly, distantly.

Clint felt his heart sink. She’d been like that so often since school had started, like it was taking everything she had to manage a conversation with him. He kept trying, though. Hoping whatever had gotten between them would someday be lodged free and things could go back to how they were. She wouldn’t even have to explain herself, just returning to his Tasha would be enough.

She slammed her locker shut and started to walk away.

“Tasha, wait,” Clint called, silently cursing his small stature. Even with his growth spurt, Natasha was still taller than him and so lithe that making her way through the crowd was never a problem.

She didn’t stop, forcing him to catch up to her.

“Tasha,” he addressed again, struggling to keep stride with her steps. “Hey, look, I know you have dance this afternoon, but after that do you wanna hang out? It’s supposed to be warm today and I thought we could take Lucky to the park or something.”

She didn’t stop her walking as she shook her head. “Sorry. But I’m hanging with James after dance. He’s giving me a ride home.”

Clint hated the twisted feeling in his gut at the mention of _James._ He was Nat’s new friend or something, and he was tall, about Steve’s age, and as she’d said, “had the most amazing eyes.” (There was a time not long ago _he’d_ held that title.) Clint had never met James but he hated him. James meant he didn’t get to hang out with his best friend.

“Oh,” he resigned but didn’t give up. “How about this weekend then? We could go see a movie.”

Nat shook her head. “Nothing good out. Besides, I’m tight for cash.”

“I’ll pay, Tasha. It’s no big deal. Really.”

She didn’t look at him.

“We could watch a movie at my place,” he tried again.

“I’m busy this weekend, Clint,” she dismissed. She’d reached her classroom and ducked into it without saying anything else.

Clint stood there watching her as she started talking to Jessica Drew who sat next to her. He felt a little sick and contemplated going to the nurse, but shoved the idea away. The nurse would tell Phil and he would worry and that’s the last thing either one of them needed.

Because ever since Phil had taken up the vice principal position he’d gotten really busy. And Clint knew the man didn’t need one more thing to worry about. Not when he already had three – sometimes four – other foster kids to worry about, to make sure they had taken their meds, had gotten fed, had stayed out of trouble. And he didn’t want Phil in on this thing with Natasha anyway. He could handle it all on his own. She was _his_ best friend after all.

He slid into his seat just as the bell rang. He didn’t focus on what the teacher was saying – it was math; he could do math – and instead tried to figure out how to get Natasha back to speaking to him.

He missed her. He missed spending time with her, cracking stupid jokes and laughing over nothing. He missed the smell of her shampoo lingering on the couch cushions from where she’d spent the night, from where they’d stayed up until three in the morning playing Mario Kart and Halo and Minecraft. He missed the feeling of her hand on his arm where she’d shove him when he threw a blue shell at her Kart. He missed the way her smile was warm and real and just for him.

He missed _her._

And he wasn’t stupid, and he certainly wasn’t blind. He’d noticed how she’d changed in the past few months. She’d started to get nice curves up top; her face was slimming down to reveal suddenly _there_ cheekbones. She was beautiful; he knew that. He’d known that since the day he met her, had been transfixed by her crimson hair and bright green eyes since the moment she’d entered his life. But he treasured their friendship too much to admit to even himself that what he felt might not be purely friendship.

He pressed his forehead to his notebook on the desktop and tried not to audibly groan.

He could see why she wouldn’t want anything to do with him. Who the hell would want to hang out with the deaf kid who sometimes had seizures and lived with the vice principal?

He peeled away from his notebook and glared at the marker board where the teacher was going over regrouping decimals. He glanced at his paper and rolled his eyes. Where his forehead had been was a greasy patch of oil. He prayed it didn’t somehow give him more zits. He sometimes wondered if it’d be easier having braces like Tony or terribly unruly curly hair like Bruce than to have acne. It wasn’t _bad_ but it was noticeable; it was more than the few breakouts his fosters brothers had had. And it hurt sometimes too.

He concentrated on the board and copied some of it down into his notes. But his thoughts circled back to Tasha and he ended up just doodling a stick figure archer shooting arrows into various things.

He was finally old enough to take the archery class offered at the Treehouse. He’d surpassed all his peers within the first month and Trip had bumped him up to the intermediate class not a week later. His aim was still better than the rest of the class, but his strength was nothing compared to theirs. He was small, short, couldn’t pull much draw weight. So Trip had started him in on a few trick shots, simple things including the ‘split and apple’ gag. He could do them if he was close to the target. He was working really hard on getting his strength up. He’d even asked Thor – who had the biggest arms Clint had ever seen – what he recommended. Thor had chuckled and said, “Time.” Which wasn’t much help. But Steve let Clint go a few rounds on one of the punching bags and that had helped a little.

The teacher wiped down the board and started the next part of the lesson. Clint ignored him and drew a stick figure on the page and named him ‘James.’ His stick archer missed the apple on ‘James’’ head and it went right through the guy’s forehead. He felt a little better after that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Scene 4**

 

“No, Bruce, even with a hadron collider the fusion would-”

“Would happen momentarily, I know. But in the moment we could observe the effects that-”

“Observation effect. Changing the outcome. Quantum mechanics, Bruce.”

“This isn’t at a quantum level, Tony.”

“Everything’s at a quantum level!”

Bruce sighed. He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. “Ok, fine. Sure.” He glanced back down at his notes. “What were we supposed to be discussing?”

“Moles and Avogadro's number,” Darcy mumbled from across the lab table, head flat on the surface. Their last group member and Darcy’s on-again-off-again boyfriend, Ian, was sat next to her, pencil poised over the page but too lost to continue taking notes.

“Oh, right,” Tony muttered. He cleared his throat to begin explaining but the bell rang, signaling the end of class. As they packed up Darcy began casually, “So, uh, Tony, is your foster brother single?”

Tony glanced at Ian and raised a brow at Darcy. She backpedaled. “No, I mean, I’m asking for Jane.”

Tony gave her a “sure you are” look that she ignored. “Depends on the brother.”

“The tall blonde one.”

“That would be Steve. And no, he’s taken.”

“I know that. The other blonde one?”

Tony scrunched his brows. “Clint?”

“No! The _other_ other one.”

Tony thought it over and then realized, “You mean Thor. Yeah, no, he’s not in foster care. But he does hang out with us. And as far as I know he’s available.”

“Okay, cool.” Darcy grabbed Ian’s hand but Tony cleared his throat, stopping the pair.

“Any particular reason you’re asking?”

Darcy rolled her eyes. “Jane may or may not have hit him with her car in the parking lot this morning.”

“What?” Bruce cut in.

“Oh, no, the guy’s fine. But I noticed Jane staring and stuttering a little so I thought I’d go fishing, you know, on her behalf.”

“To be fair, that’s the first time I’ve seen her like that,” Ian interjected.

“And she did want to apologize but couldn’t track him down.”

Tony tented his fingers, resting his chin on the tips. “Hmmm.” He turned to Bruce. “How would you feel about having the brilliant Jane Foster over at the house as an almost constant presence?”

“Are you kidding? It’d be awesome!” he replied.

Tony nodded. “Okay, listen up, Darce. Thor has football practice this afternoon. It gets done at five. Tell Jane she can apologize then and let the practical Viking god do the rest.”

“Thanks, Tony,” she tossed as she dragged Ian out of the classroom.

Tony turned back to Bruce. “One more scientist in the mix. Now,” he rubbed his hands together, “to get Betty on the team too.”

Bruce’s countenance turned to panic. “Tony, no.”

“Oh, c’mon, Bruce. You love her! I’ve seen it in your eyes. So buck up and talk to her already, will ya.”

Bruce shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is.”

“No, Tony,” he sighed, “look, it’s…her dad is the police chief.”

“And…”

“And he was the one who arrested me when I sent Blonsky to the hospital.”

Tony’s next quip died on his tongue.

It had been soon after Bruce had come to the home. He’d had an episode – they had been trying to find the right dosage still – and Bruce had attacked a student who was picking on him. He’d punched the kid too hard and so relentlessly that Emil Blonsky was sent to the hospital with three broken ribs, a fractured collarbone and cheekbone, and possible internal bleeding. The cops had hauled Bruce away on assault charges, but they were dropped when it was explained about Bruce’s condition. (Plus the Stark Foundation may or may not have made a considerable donation to the officers’ struggling K9 program – not that Tony had ever told Bruce that.)

But Tony was a Stark and Starks were unflappable so he shrugged off Bruce’s excuse and said, “Well, that just makes it more of a challenge.” He put his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Stick with me, pal, and you’ll be smooching Betty Ross behind the bleachers by the winter formal.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Go to class, Tony.” He hauled his bag onto his shoulder and pushed past his year younger foster brother, lazily cursing the man’s big brain that had allowed him to skip a grade and pester him.

Tony was thinking of ways to get Bruce and Betty to be a thing as he entered his English classroom. But all thoughts vanished when he saw her sitting there, ankles crossed under her desk, reading and taking notes on what was undoubtedly their next assignment. He liked that she got ahead in her schoolwork. It was adorably nerdy and absolute proof that she’d deserved to skip a grade just like him. Now if only he could get her to loosen up and go to the Halloween dance with him…

Tony smoothed down his hair, ran a tongue over his shiny braces, and sidled up to Pepper Potts. “Doubt thou the stars are fire. Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar. But never doubt that I-”

“If you finish that line I will punch you so hard in the face your breath is going to smell like my nail polish.”

Tony frowned. “You need to quit tutoring Natasha; you’re starting to sound like her.”

Pepper didn’t look up from her notebook. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Tony huffed. “Believe me, I have no issue with her, because having an issue with her is like being a target for a nuclear bomb.” He leaned a little closer to Pepper. “She could kill me, you know. With her pinky. And then you wouldn’t get to see my lovely face or hear my melodious voice ever again.”

“Remind me to send her a thank you note.”

He frowned, pouting. “C’mon, Pep. You know you like me.”

She looked at him and left out a breath of annoyance. “Tony Stark, if I liked you it would only be a trillionth of how much you like yourself.”

His brows narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She went back to her notes. “You’re the genius. Figure it out.”

Tony left to go sit in his seat but didn’t pay much attention to class. He felt restless, wounded. Pepper had… hurt him. And God it _hurt_.

And even if Natasha was scary and could kill him with her pinky, Pepper had just surpassed her. Because she had stabbed him with mere words. And he was only bleeding for her more.

Man, he really needed to get out of the Shakespeare chapter they were studying.

…

Jane Foster stood at the fence that surrounded the football field and ran her fingers over the chain-link distractedly. She’d hit a guy with her car this morning and he’d walked it off like it was nothing. And okay, even if he wasn’t hurt it certainly wasn’t _nothing._ She’d hit him with her car!

So when Darcy told her the behemoth of a man got done with football practice at five, she’d made up her mind to apologize to the guy when he went out to his car. It was five thirty and she was afraid she’d missed him.

But then she saw him – it was impossible not to with his massive arms and pulled back blonde hair that had her biting her lip awkwardly. _Stop it, Jane,_ she told herself. _You hit him with a moving vehicle. He probably never wants to see your face again._

“Uh, excuse me,” she found herself calling out to him.

He turned to face her, a genuine smile on his face. “What troubles thee, fair maiden?”

She blinked away her surprise. She was not expecting poetry from the jock. “Hi, um, I’m Jane. Jane Foster. You might remember. I kind of hit you with my car this morning.”

His grin grew wider and Jane contemplated the idea that she’d given him brain damage. “I remember.” His smile morphed into more of a smirk. “It was the best tackle I’ve had in months. Not one on the field has caused me to fall and you did.” He – what? Bowed? – to her.

“Oh. Okay.” Jane bit her lip again. “So you’re not mad?”

He chuckled and she swore she could feel it in her bones. “Anger was not my reaction.”

She heaved a sigh of relief. “Well that’s… that’s good to hear.” She wasn’t sure if she should leave then or keep talking to him. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something else. And in her lack of clarity, her mind supplied Darcy’s last resort suggestion.

“Would you like to come over tonight for dinner?” She explained in a rush, “I mean, you know, to apologize for hitting you with a car. Even though you’re not upset, I feel like I owe you something for that.”

Thor beamed at her, grabbed her hand and bushed his lips over her knuckles. “I would be delighted.”

Jane suddenly felt… bubbly. But like those bubbles were screaming. _Is he for real?_

She drew back her hand with a tentative smile. “Um, seven then?”

He grinned and wow his teeth were nice. “I shall be there.” He paused. “Your residence is…?”

“Oh, right.” She dug around in her book bag, pulled out a composition notebook and tore off a corner of a page near the back. She scribbled her address with a pen she’d pulled from her pocket and handed to him, ignoring the heat of his hand as it brushed hers. “Okay. Um, see ya.” And she practically ran away, chewing herself out over inviting a stranger to her home for a meal. Who did that? Seriously?

But the real fun part would be telling her mother and having to explain both that she wasn’t dating the gorgeous jock, and that she’d nearly run him over. She wasn’t sure which one she liked better.

Thor studied the paper in his hand and felt his chest swell. He’d have to ask Coulson about an appropriate dish to bring to this apology feast seeing as he was unsure of this American custom.

He mulled the beautiful young woman’s name over in his mind. Jane Foster. He liked the way it sounded. And he especially liked how she’d been the first person to best him in months. None of his fellow football players had gotten him to fall yet this season. And although it was with a machine, he couldn’t help but laugh that this tiny woman has landed him on his ass. He liked the poetry in it. And if that made him a little strange, he didn’t mind. Jane was lovely, polite, and he was excited for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gang's all here! Hope you enjoyed getting to see where everybody's at.   
> Also if you haven't read the part before this, part 2.5 (but listed as 3 on the site, confusing, I know) I'd highly recommend it. Especially if you're looking for kid Clint and Nat being best buds. Just saying. 
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone for reading, Kudos-ing, commenting, and bookmarking. I'll see you next week!


	5. Chapter 5

**Scene 5**

 

Natasha hurried down the hallway, pushing around her fellow classmates. She needed to get out of there and to dance as soon as possible. She couldn’t afford to be late again. Madame would kick her out for sure.

She was on the school steps when a familiar voice called out to her. She wanted to stop, but couldn’t. She couldn’t be late.

“Tasha,” he called, and she felt her heart break once more. Why couldn’t he take the hint and stay away?

“Tasha, wait up,” he shouted. A moment later he was beside her, matching her fast pace. “Are you not going to tutoring with Pepper?”

“I have dance, Clint,” she explained in a rush.

“I thought-”

“It’s been moved up.”

He stopped for a moment and then ran to catch back up with her. “So what? You’re not going to be in tutoring for the rest of the year?”

She shrugged, not missing a step. “Probably.” She knew that hurt him. She knew that he was probably struggling to keep his protests in his mouth. But he did and she loved him for it. He’d always known what she needed. It was what made this so hard.

“Oh,” was all he replied.

She absolutely detested the heartbreak in it. But this would be better in the long run. It would keep him safe. She spotted James leaning up against his motorcycle in the parking lot right where he said he’d be. She turned to Clint. “I have to go. See ya.” She ran off to join James, giving him a hug and ignoring the tension and surprise in his shoulders when she did so. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Clint shuffle back inside to go to tutoring.

“Thanks for taking me,” she said, strapping on the helmet he offered her.

“No problem.” He glanced back at the steps she’d previously been on. “So who was that?”

She didn’t answer.

He grinned. “Clint?”

Still no answer.

But James didn’t need one. “He’s cute, Nat. Like a puppy.” He swung his leg over the bike and she settled in behind him.

“I’m trying to convince him to go away.”

“Hence the hug, huh? Play it like you have a crush on someone else?”

“You’re implying I have a crush on him,” she retorted, trying to shift the conversation.

James didn’t bite. “You saying you don’t?”

No answer.

He shook his head. “Can I at least ask why?”

“You know why, James.”

He did. Any involvement with any of them was dangerous. He had his reasons to stay away from them too. If the street knew they had connections, people they cared about…

He revved up the motorcycle’s engine and felt Natasha’s arms cling to him as he took off out of the parking lot. He’d volunteered to take her to dance so she didn’t have to walk with it getting so cold now. And with Madame demanding longer practices, making it there on time had become a problem. He didn’t mind. He liked Natasha. There was a comfort between them as if they’d been friends for a long time.

Once in the parking lot of the studio, he told her he’d be back later to pick her up. She smiled and thanked him again.

The smile he gave her was lopsided and reminded her a little too much of the “puppy” she’d left back at school.

…

“How do you spell ‘Doberman?” Clint asked curiously as he sat at the kitchen table while Phil made dinner.

“Capital D-O-B-E-R-M-A-N,” Phil responded. But he’d clattered the dish as he put it in the oven and his letters were lost in the noise.

Clint sighed. “Phil.”

“Hmm.” The man turned around.

“ _How do you spell it?”_

Phil grinned lightly and fingerspelled his earlier answer. Then he asked, “ _Why do you need to spell ‘Doberman’?”_          

“ _Because-“_

Phil’s phone went off and he put up a finger to pause Clint as he picked it up and answered. “Coulson.” He was silent a minute. “I see. Okay. I’ll be there.”

Phil grabbed his car keys from the basket by the door and ducked back into the kitchen to tell Clint, “ _Hill needs to see me right away. Consult for a case of hers.”_ He set the timer for the casserole in the oven. _“Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Can you take it out of the oven_.”

Clint nodded but looked a little sad.

Phil frowned at the look but he needed to go. He signed a hasty, “ _I love you_ ,” to his son and exited out the door.

Clint threw his pencil across the kitchen and collapsed his head onto his notebook. It was silent in the house. Tony and Bruce were at the community college for their dual credit night class. Steve was upstairs working on an illustration that was due the next day in his art class. Thor was at some girl’s house.

He went outside to toss a tennis ball for Lucky, smiling at the dog’s excitement. It was nice to know at least somebody wanted him around.

He lost track of time and soon Steve’s head popped out the back door and asked, “What was the timer for?”

Clint turned to him, trying to hold the ball out of Lucky’s reach. “Casserole.”

He went in eventually to find Steve chowing down on dinner with his phone out, probably texting his girlfriend, Peggy. Clint dished himself out a plate and sat down in the seat next to Steve. But the older boy didn’t say anything and Clint was about five seconds away from taking his meal outside to eat with his dog, when Steve popped up with, “Finish up.”

He narrowed his brows. “Why?”

“Peggy wants to go shopping for costumes for the Halloween dance, and since no one’s home I have to take you with me.”

Clint pushed a cheesy potato chunk around his plate. “Can’t I stay here?”

“No. Phil would kill me if you were left here alone.”

“But I can take care of myself. And I don’t wanna go shopping.”

Steve shook his head. “You remember what happened last time, right? You got kidnapped.”

“I didn’t need the reminder, Steve.”

Steve took his plate to the sink and rinsed it off. “Regardless, you’re coming with me.”

“But, Steve.” His voice wined, drawing out the E in the name and then cracked on the end, making Clint want to shoot arrows at everything in sight. Why couldn’t the damn thing just drop already?

Steve shook his head, unrelenting. “Bring your homework.”

So two hours and no costumes later, Clint trailed behind Steve and Peggy who were holding hands and having a grand old time being out at the mall together. Clint had abandoned his homework in the car in favor of his DS and Pokémon. He sat down on a chair in the next store, continuing to collect, train, and battle. He barely heard Peggy’s pearls of laughter and Steve’s echoing chuckle and glanced up to find them in his and hers WW2 military uniforms. Clint rolled his eyes. Freaking Uncle Sam and Rosie the Riveter needed a new hobby.

He went back to his game, occasionally glancing up to see if Steve and Peggy were done yet. His eyes flittered away from the screen and that’s when he caught sight of red. Red hair.

It wasn’t Nat’s brilliant, bold red, more of a tawny red, ruddy. But it was achingly familiar. A red that was drilled into his brain, imprinted on his skull. He bolted out of his chair, out the store and chased after it.

He thought about calling out, almost tried to. But when his sharp eyes searched they found no red hair. Just an emptying food court and several stores that were looking ready to start closing up for the night.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, shoving his DS into one and continuing to look around. He had to be here. There was no way his mind would’ve made up this brother. Barney _had_ to be here. But the place was devoid of red, _that_ red. And Clint refused to believe it was because Barney wasn’t there.

He knew that Barney was in Juvie, that there was no way he’d be in the mall at eight thirty-five at night. But that red had been unmistakable. He never would’ve forgotten it.

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, forcefully spinning him around and for a split second he thought of his father. But the face that greeted him was young and familiar and washed in panic, followed by relief.  

“Clint!” Steve rejoiced, pulling the boy into his arms and clinging on way too tightly for Clint’s taste.

“Steve,” he started to complain, but Steve let him go, pushing him back but keeping his hands on Clint’s shoulders.

“Don’t ever do that!” Steve scolded.

Clint tried his hardest not to flinch at Steve’s raised voice, but old habits die hard.

Steve noticed and pulled Clint in for another hug. He explained, “Peggy was checking out and when I glanced over you were gone and, Clint, I…” He couldn’t finish. Peggy came over to them, looking about as relived as Steve or maybe more.

Clint pulled out of Steve’s arms. “I’m sorry.”

“What were you thinking?” he asked.

“I…I thought I saw someone I knew.” He didn’t dare say he thought he saw Barney.

Steve frowned at the answer but put his hand on Clint’s back and walked him away, saying, “C’mon, let’s go home.”

Peggy had the bag with their purchased costumes in one hand and reached for Steve’s hand with her other. She kept looking over at Clint as if expecting him to run away again. Clint just put his hands in his pockets and let them lead him outside to Steve’s car.

After they dropped off Peggy, Clint moved to the front seat. Steve had pulled into their driveway when Clint finally spoke. “Don’t tell Phil, okay?”

Steve looked at him, face hard to read in the yellow glow of the porch light.

“I don’t want him to worry.”

“Clint,” Steve tried. But the boy interrupted.

“I won’t do it again, Steve. Promise.”

Steve studied his foster brother for a long moment, trying to weigh out if telling Phil was the best option. On one hand, Clint had left his sight without a word. On the other, he’d been found and was okay. So he decided to, this once, let it go. “Fine,” he muttered, getting out of the car.

Clint sat there after Steve had shut the door, silent, thinking. It had to have been Barn.

He couldn’t have made up that red.


	6. Chapter 6

**Scene 6**

 

Ever since Clint had started at SHIELD he’d faced a problem that wasn’t in any way new. He’d been dropped in enough places, had been the new kid, more than once, so he was used to it. But now that he had some permanence and was sticking around for a while, that “not new” problem had grown more noticeable.

But perhaps the best example came in his science class when the teacher announced for the students to partner up. And there he was again, left with no one wanting to be his partner because of that problem: he wasn’t all that great at making friends.

For Tony and Thor it was so easy, for Bruce it didn’t matter. Steve had Sam and Peggy and all his art friends, and Clint… Clint had Nat. _Had_ seeming to be the key word. He still wasn’t sure what the hell was up with that. He blamed James.

So as he looked around the room, he sighed. Because once again the only person available was Loki.

Loki was Thor’s brother but they looked nothing alike and acted completely different too. But with no other option, Clint grabbed his worksheet and plopped down in the desk next to the constantly brooding boy who looked at him with sharp green eyes framed in dark, heavy lashes. It made him look very unapproachable, which Clint guessed was kind of the point.

Clint didn’t bother with any form of greeting or small talk. He was familiar enough with Loki by now to know that would be a waste. So he took out his pencil and stumbled through reading the first question. To his credit, and for all his sharp looks, Loki never made a comment about Clint’s trouble with reading. He didn’t seem particularly okay with it, flinching almost every time Clint mixed up a word, but he always remained silent.

But today, the dark haired boy seemed extra irritated and outright refused to communicate with Clint on any of the questions. They were studying genetics – the watered down middle school version with Gregor Mendel and his pea plants.

Clint got stuck on one, though, and with sagging shoulders brought himself to ask for help.

Loki glared at him, harsh green eyes meeting begging blue. “It’s not hard,” he spat.

Clint instantly looked back down at his paper. He noticed he’d mixed up the letters in one of his answers and erased it, rewriting it again.

With a dramatic sigh Loki relented. “What’s your question?”

Clint pointed to number four on his paper. “It’s asking about first and second generation, but I don’t see a difference in-”

“The Ys are capitalized for the first generation,” Loki cut in. He circled all the capital letters.

Clint felt his cheeks burn as they turned pink. It had been hard to tell the difference in the small and capital letters. He answered the question using Loki’s circles as a guide.

The other boy’s pencil lead broke for the third time and he cursed quietly, tossing the writing tool onto the desk and folding his arms indignantly over his chest.

“You okay?” Clint ventured, despite being pretty sure Loki would snap his neck.

The boy rolled his green eyes. “Peachy.”

Clint let it drop and went back to his worksheet. He stopped at the last question, which asked for them to fill out the Punnett Square using the hair color of the student’s parents. Loki noticed the pause.

“What? Stuck again?” It wasn’t concern in his voice, but rather something acidic.

Clint shook his head. “No, just… I guess I have to use my real dad.” He started filling out the squares and trying not to think of his father nor of his ruddy hair, which Barn had gotten.    

Loki scoffed and seemed to be refusing to fill out the paper. Clint thought about asking him if he needed help, but refrained.

After a moment Loki spat, “How can you forget?”

Clint looked at him, confusion displayed on his features.

“That you’re adopted,” he clarified.

Clint shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I _forget_. Besides, Phil’s my dad now. Why should I dwell on the one that’s not alive?” _And hurt me_ , he added in his mind.

Loki seemed pissed at the answer, shaking his head and looking upwards as if Clint was now beneath him.

“It doesn’t bother you that he’s not your real dad?”

Again Clint shrugged. “He treats me like his son.”

And at Loki’s next eye roll, Clint started putting the pieces together. He played a hunch. “You’re adopted, aren’t you?”

Loki looked ready to murder him, and Clint would’ve regretted ever saying anything except there was something in the dark haired boy’s eyes. It flickered, was extinguished almost instantly, but it had been there: a glimmer of pain, sharp and shining.

Loki didn’t answer one way or the other and left the square on his paper blank. Clint took that as an answer in the affirmative.

The bell rang to signal the end of class and Loki gathered up his stuff quickly. Clint turned in his paper and was almost finished gathering his books when Loki came over and glared at him.

“You speak a word of this to anyone, and I’ll break your fingers,” he threatened. His voice was low but had his usual diction so Clint caught his words.

The dark haired boy rushed off, leaving Clint standing there, hand unconsciously cradled to his chest. Loki wouldn’t be the first one to snap his fingers.

At lunch he sat alone and picked at his food more than eating it. He missed his lunches with Tony and silently cursed the teen for being bumped up a grade. He dumped his uneaten lunch and slipped out to go to the office in search of Phil.

Between Loki’s threat, the events last night, and having to think about his father, Clint just wanted some time alone with him. But when he got to the office, Phil was out to lunch with Principal Fury, and the secretary offered to leave him a message, but it wasn’t the same.

Clint wondered the hall, avoiding the security cameras with practiced ease until the bell rang and he went to his next class.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thing with mixing up the capital Y's and lower case actually happened to a friend of mine. Thought I'd add it in. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and Kudos-ing! You all are the best!!! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle warning for mentions of past gang activity.

**Scene 7**  

Sam Wilson should’ve expected it. He’d done this enough times to know better. Nevertheless, the fist flying towards him was just simply too fast and it connected with his shoulder as he tried and failed to duck it. The slam jolted him back a step, effectively breaking him away from the fray. His opponent stopped, dropping his intense stance and staring at him with concerned eyes.

Sam took a breath and rubbed his soon-to-be bruised shoulder. He flashed a smile to his opponent and shook his head. “Third time this week, Steve.”

Steve bowed his head sheepishly. “Sorry, I-”

“Don’t be sorry, Steve,” Sam cut him off. “I know what I’m getting into when I challenge you to a sparring match.” He rubbed at his shoulder some more. “I just need to wise up and not do it.”

Steve smirked. “Just get better and it won’t be a problem.”

“Just get better, he says,” Sam mumbled, stepping off the mat and grabbing his bottle of water. “Not all of us are on some crazy sci-fi med trip like you are, Rogers.”

“You’re just sore a guy with asthma beat you,” he countered, grabbing his own water bottle. He took a swig then changed the subject. “You going to the Halloween dance?”

Sam shook his head. “Nah, Trip’s got me working that Friday. Besides, I ain’t got a date and would be third wheeling it with you and Peggy. And that’s no fun.”

Steve didn’t want to agree, but Sam did have a point. His mind went quickly down the list of the few girls he knew. It was a pretty short list. He hadn’t exactly been popular with the ladies in middle school and even then he’d only had eyes for Peggy. She had a cousin… Sharon? Maybe Sam could ask her…

Sam looked over his friend and clapped a hand to the man’s shoulder. “Quit thinking so hard, Steve; you’ll fry your brain.”

Steve rolled Sam’s hand off and decided to drop it.

He took a swig of his water bottle and then told Sam he was going to take a shower. Sam left him to it and went back behind the service desk of the Treehouse’s main area, nodding to the current desk worker, and getting a wave from the attendee in the range visible through the windows behind the desk.

Sam grinned as his attention was diverted to Steve’s little brother who was shooting arrow after arrow into the targets down range. The kid was good, really good. And as soon as he got up the strength he’d be phenomenal. But as Sam watched he noticed Clint didn’t look particularly happy. He was scowling at the target, releasing arrows with a little too much frustration.

Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and went to open the door to the range.

Clint pierced the target relentlessly. His hands were aching and he couldn’t care less. His mind was hurting him more.

He fired the arrows over and over again: pull, breathe, release, pull breathe release. He kept his mind on that rhythm to prevent it from going back to anything else. Pull, breathe, release, pull, breathe, release. His feet anchored him. His shoulders were starting to feel the strain, his fingers long bruised. He’d left his hearing aids in his locker.

Pull, breathe, release, pull, breathe, re-

A hand came down on his shoulder, startling him. He whipped around, hands coming up in defense, bow ready to be swung like a staff.

“Whoa, kid,” a familiar face mouthed in the silence created by his lack of hearing. The young man’s hands were up in an innocent gesture, reaching for the sky. But after a minute of standoff, Sam’s features softened. “I would hate to be who you’re pretending that target to be.”

Clint caught most of it by reading Sam’s lips. But his mind was a little too far out of reality to really comprehend it.

Sam motioned towards the bay of lockers in the back of the range and Clint followed. Sam helped the kid take off the guards on his hand and wrist and once Clint had put is aids back in, Sam told him to take a seat on the bench beside him. Clint did so, but rolled his eyes.

Sam was quiet a moment as he looked over Clint’s bruised fingers. They looked ready to bleed at any moment. He knew Clint knew that such an action was neither helpful nor any kind of an answer. But Clint wasn’t the first one to have gone too hard on a target. Sam had been there before and knew that sometimes you just don’t care. Sometimes you’re just too angry at the world for taking someone you loved, at yourself for slipping into the wrong crowd. So he saved that particular lecture for another day.

Leaning back on the bench, resting his weight on his hands behind him, he opened with, “Ya, know, this one time back in New York – you know, where I’m from – I waited all day to go to this new pizza place down the street. I was so excited; they were supposed to have the best slice of pepperoni outside of Italy, right? Finally dinner came around and my dad took me there. We ordered, waited another thirty minutes for it, and when I took a bite of the supposed fantastic pizza, all I got was a mouthful of cardboard crust and greasy cheese. Needless to say I was disheartened, a little angry.” He let out a sigh. “You ever get a big bite of disappointment?  

Clint looked at the young man who reminded him so much of Steve. It was no wonder the two teens were friends, what with their freakily similar insight into everything. Of course Sam had narrowed in on what was bothering him.

Clint’s silence was enough of an answer for Sam. The older boy leaned back and stretched out on the bench, leaving his legs to dangle on the sides, feet on the floor. “Wanna talk about it?”

Clint didn’t. He wasn’t big on the sharing thing, especially when it came to feelings. It’s not like his dad really let him, nor any of the boys at the home before Phil. But Sam was nice and didn’t push and, well, dammit, Clint didn’t want to be alone for once. So with a sigh he mumbled, “Everyone’s busy.”

Sam didn’t move from his reclined position. “And so are you, right?”

Clint thought about that. School had picked up and he had archery, but other than that and Lucky it seemed he was the only one with free time left. So he answered, “Kind of.”

Sam nodded, his head awkwardly bobbing against the board of the bench. He asked, “Is it that they’re busy or that you’re feeling ignored?”

Clint’s shoulders sagged. It was definitely the latter. And that was strange because before his life with Phil he would’ve given anything to have been ignored, to have not been seen or heard by his father, by Jackson, by Carter. But now…

“Ignored,” he muttered in response.

Again Sam nodded. He took in a breath. “People get busy, Clint. That happens. But I can pretty much guarantee that Phil and Steve and all the others aren’t doing it on purpose or anything.” He paused then added, “They’re not trying to hurt you is what I’m saying.”

Clint nodded. “I know.” He let out a deep sigh then mumbled, “It’s actually not them.”

“Them what? That’s the problem?”

Another nod.

“Who is it then?” Sam inquired, sitting up.

But Clint shook his head and Sam let it settle. It was hard to be helpful if people didn’t want to first help themselves. His dad had taught him that.

He patted Clint’s knee. “Well I’ll be here if you do want to talk about it. ‘Kay?”

Clint nodded once more.

“Steve’s showering so he’ll be ready to go soon. Want help packing up?”

Clint shook his head and went about methodically gathering his archery equipment and stowing it in his locker.

Sam watched as Clint trudged behind Steve as they left the gym. He felt a little sad for the kid; he knew what it was like to feel ignored. By friends, by family, by God and all the universe. After all, the big man his dad had preached about every Sunday allowed him to be shot down in the street. And Sam had been angry for a long time. He’d made mistakes, gotten involved with the wrong people. But he hadn’t been as ignored as he thought. His mother stopped him one night with tears in her eyes and begged him to get out of the gang he’d ended up in. At the time he’d pushed her aside. But then with a gun in his hands and the reality of what he was expected to do with it sank in.

He got out.

They’d moved.

And maybe his faith in a higher power wasn’t all the way healed, but he didn’t feel so alone. He had a job – and Trip was an awesome boss – he was at a good school, Steve was a good friend.

All in all things were okay.

He just hoped Clint could see that too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam! :) He's so nice.


	8. Chapter 8

**Scene 8**

The Halloween dance was only four days away and Tony still didn’t have a date. Well, that was a lie. He could have a date in two minutes if he wanted – there were plenty of girls willing and wanting to go with him. But he wasn’t interested in them. Not in the way he was in Pepper.

She didn’t like him.

What the hell was up with that? Who in their right mind didn’t like him? He was Tony Stark: genius, son of the late billionaire, benefactor of Phil’s special needs foster home. The Queen of England should knight him for just being him. But Pepper would roll her eyes or make a jab at him any time he asked her out. And it was annoying the hell out of him.

So he’d made up his mind to corner her at her locker after school and not let her leave until she said yes to him. Girls liked persistence, right?

“Hey, Pep,” he greeted as she approached her locker.

Her barely concealed horror at him being there did not go unnoticed. But Tony skated on, thin ice be damned.

“So the Halloween dance is this Friday and-”

“Tony,” she sighed, the sheer weight of it dragging his hopes down. “Enough. Okay. I’m not going to the dance with you.”

He stared at her, big brown eyes blinking. He ran his tongue over his braces in his mouth but couldn’t think of a response. There was only one question on his mind and with a bowed head he muttered it. “Why not?”

Pepper frowned. “You have a heart condition.”

His head snapped up. “What? That’s not fair! You won’t go out with me because the electricity in my heart is whacked? Really?”

She put up her hand to stop him, doing her best to ignore the eyes that had shot her way at his outburst. “Not that heart condition, Tony.”

He was confused.

Pepper resumed packing up her books as she spoke. “You only care about yourself. Me going out with you would have nothing to do with us, and everything to do with you, once more, getting what you want. And I don’t think I could do that.”

She stood up, swinging her book bag onto her shoulder. The look in Tony’s eyes caught her though. There was something in them that made him look undoubtedly human for once. He wasn’t some Colossus towering above everyone in that instant and it gave her pause. _This_ was the Tony she’d seen in glimpses. _This_ was the Tony that Clint talked about sometimes in tutoring. _This_ was the Tony she’d had a thing for since grade school. And its rarity had only become more so as he’d entered high school.

With a deep sigh she pulled a notebook out and tore out a page. “Fine. You want a date? How about you earn it?”

He perked up. Tony always did like a challenge. He watched as Pepper scribbled down on the piece of paper what appeared to be a list. After a minute or so she handed it to him and he snatched it up with renewed enthusiasm.

His eyes scanned the page and his mind struggled to comprehend what was on it. He was a genius; this shouldn’t confuse him. But it did. “You want me to what? Pick something from-”

“It’s a checklist, Tony,” Pepper cut in. “Do everything on that list and I’ll go on a date with you.”

He looked it over again. Volunteer at a homeless shelter and nursing home, donate to Coat-A-Kid – must be a gently used jacket that _you’ve_ worn at least once, help Phil make dinner one night, go at minimum four hours without teasing your foster brothers – yes, while they are awake, do something nice for someone at school, organize a fundraiser for the institution of your choice.

Tony held up the paper. “This is ridiculous.”

Pepper shrugged a shoulder. “I prefer to think of it as business. You want to go out? I need to know you can be selfless for more than two seconds. That’s the price, billionaire.” She shut her locker door. “Pay up.” She walked away, a little too triumphantly for Tony’s taste.

Tony was ready to crumble up the paper and toss it into the nearest trashcan. But he looked at it again, admired the perfectly neat, precise handwriting. Just like her, all put together and with it.

He carefully folded the list and slipped it into his pocket, deciding to think about it.

 

Bruce was at the kitchen table working on chemistry; Thor was next to him studying American History. Tony slid into a chair opposite the two and rested his head on the table. He groaned but got no reaction from the other two. He sighed deeply, dramatically, but still they remained focused on their studies. He resorted to hitting his head on the table’s surface before Bruce relented.

“Something you want?”

“A little sympathy,” Tony replied.

“What for, my friend?” Thor inquired, standing up to refill his water glass from the tap.

“The love of my life has given me a checklist to fulfill before I can go out with her,” he answered, resuming his position of slumped over the table.

Bruce huffed. “Mine’s the daughter of the one guy in town who hates my guts.”

“And my love is enthralled with her work in a manner that, as she says, leaves little time for boys.”

The three collectively sighed. Bruce went back to his notes and Thor stared out the kitchen window as he drank his water. But Tony, Tony was left thinking this over. And soon he got an idea.

“How would you two like to make a hundred bucks?”

Bruce and Thor looked at him, similarly confused features on their faces.

Tony grinned. “Listen to us. We’re bemoaning our singleness when, let’s face it, we could go out there, sweep ‘em off their feet, and fix this problem in no time. Huh?”

Bruce raised a brow. “What are you saying, Tony?”

“I’m betting you.”

“What?”

“I’m betting you that I can get a date before either one of you.” He pulled the checklist from his pocket and counted up the activities on the list. “Even with these ridiculous tasks to complete.”

“And if you do, we owe you a hundred bucks?” Bruce inquired. “No dice, Tony. I don’t have any allowance, let alone one the size of yours.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Fine. Losers do dishes for a month.”

Thor laughed. “You are on, friend Stark. For surely I will win my Jane’s heart before you finish your list.”

Bruce scrunched up his nose as he thought about it, tapping his pencil on the tabletop. On one hand there was no way he was going to win. Not with police chief Ross being his obstacle. On the other, a month of no dish duty was really appealing. With a shaking head he said, “Fine. I’m in.”

Tony beamed. “There, see? We just needed a push to get going on this. Okay. So first one to have a date wins. And we all know that will be me.” He refolded the paper, put it in his pocket, and was halfway up the stairs when he paused. “By the way, does anyone know what the hell Coat-A-Kid is?”

Bruce rolled his eyes and went back to his homework. Maybe he had a chance at this after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little shorter this week, but we're gearing up for some heavier stuff...
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and Kudos-ing. You are all amazing!


	9. Chapter 9

**Scene 9**

She was standing there, all lovely red hair and familiar black hoodie. He knew he shouldn’t even try to talk to her, that she’d just ignore him again, but he couldn’t. If he gave up, it was officially over. And he couldn’t, absolutely _couldn’t_ , let it be over.

“Hey, Tasha,” he tried, his voice soft.

She looked at him but didn’t say anything.

“Want to-”

“I can’t, Clint,” she blew off, not daring to look at his pained blue-grey eyes. She shut her locker and started to leave, hoping he’d get the hint. But he followed.

“Why not, Tasha?” His voiced cracked on her name and he wanted to punch something hard enough to make his knuckles bruise.

“Look.” She stopped and turned to him. “Dance is really picking up. I’m in a more advanced class now. I can’t waste time doing silly things with you.” She stalked down the hall and held in her own tears, hating herself for being such a coward and leaving him to stand there. She couldn’t face him. She prayed she’d never have to again. But it was a lie, that prayer. She wished with all her might things could go back to how they were. But with the street…

Things were not safe.

And the last thing her heart could bear was the idea that they’d hurt him.  

Clint watched her leave, ignoring the multiple kids who bumped into his shoulders as he stood there motionless in the hall. _Silly things?_ What in the world could’ve been silly? Sure, they goofed around, but…silly? Silly meant trivial, unimportant.

Was he…silly?

“The wall is surely not that interesting, Barton,” an unwelcomed voice hissed in his ear. If it weren’t for his incredible diction, Clint would’ve missed almost all of Loki’s words through that hiss.

Clint scrubbed at his face and made his way for science class, Loki only a few steps behind. He’d been sticking closer by. Clint figured it was to make sure he didn’t spill his secret about being adopted. He dropped into his desk and attempted to overlook Loki’s annoying presence beside him.

“She’s a pretty thing, isn’t she?” Loki asked, leaning an elbow on the desk he was sitting sideways in. “Like fire, really. So bright and vivid, so graceful. But oh the _burn_.”

“What do you want?” Clint spat.

Loki shrugged a shoulder. “Who ever said I wanted anything?”

“Then go away.”

Loki remained unfazed. He pressed on. “It kills you inside, doesn’t it? To be so infatuated, so drawn to a flame that destroys you every time.” He leaned in a little. “I wonder what it is that you would give to have her feel the same way?”

Clint flipped through his textbook as an escape. “I don’t wanna hurt her.”

“Of course not. But you want something just as sweet. You want her to love you.”

Clint’s eyes flickered over to Loki. The dark-haired boy was grinning maniacally.

“Oh how it must hurt to know she never will.”

“What do you mean?” The book was now forgotten.

Loki’s lips pursed. “My, you are that naïve.”

Clint’s brows knotted.

Loki stood up to go to his seat, but before he left he leaned on the back of the desk and smiled sadly at blonde boy. “Nobody wants you, Clint. You’re an orphan. Your parents didn’t love you, didn’t want you. The foster care system couldn’t care less about you. And if your adoptive father really cared, would he need so many other children to fill his life?”

Clint felt his heart shrink in his chest. That couldn’t be true. Phil loved him.

Right?

Loki went on. “You’re not worth anything to anyone. The flame doesn’t ever know of a moth’s devotion. Why should it? They all burn equally.”

The teacher walked in and Loki sat down at his desk with a grin plastered to his face.

And Clint felt his tender world begin to crumble.

Could Loki be right? Immediately he rejected that idea. Loki was sore about his own situation and was trying to take it out on him. Phil cared about him; he wouldn’t have adopted him otherwise. And the others were there because they needed help too. And Tasha…

Oh, Tasha. God, why did that hurt so much. She was his best friend, had been for a few years. And he _missed_ her so much, was confused why she was acting the way she was. Was it because he had been ‘silly’? Is that how she saw their friendship? Trivial. Meaningless. Just something to fill the free time she no longer had. Was that really all it was to her? And Phil…

Phil had been really busy lately too. And Steve and Tony and Bruce and Thor. He was just in their way. Tony and Bruce had their science stuff, and Thor had his football buddies, and Steve had Peggy and Sam. He had…what?  

He was pondering that question long after class had ended and into his next one. But he was pulled from his musings by the teacher announcing that she’d been talking to one of the first grade teachers, and together they’d decided that the first twenty minutes of class every Wednesday would be reading time. The seventh graders would walk down to the first graders’ classroom and read to their assigned buddy. And since it was Wednesday, today would be their first one. They received nametags and were told the name of their reading partner before making the trek downstairs to their destination. The first graders also had nametags and as soon as the seventh graders arrived they began searching.

Clint kept his eyes peeled for his assigned name, taking longer than it probably should have because he’d been trying to spell the name with a C like his instead of a K. But soon he found her. Katie Bishop: a little dark haired girl with big blue eyes and a hand on her cocked hip.

“Hi,” Clint greeted with a wave as he approached her. “I’m Clint.”

“I’m Katie,” she replied, sitting down at her desk, feet swinging because of her small size. She pushed the book on her desk towards him. “We’re reading Clifford today.”

Clint grinned at the little room for argument she’d left him. He always had admired people who knew exactly what they wanted. Like Tony. Besides, he could appreciate the book selection. Big Red Dog was pretty relatable to the tawny mutt he had at home.

But as Clint opened up the book and looked at the bright yellow first page, it suddenly hit him that he’d have to read this book and have to read it out loud. And as a dyslexic, he’d more easily give up a kidney.

Katie sat expectantly, arms folded on the desktop, chin resting on them. Clint looked back at the page, took a breath, and gave it a shot. “I’m Em-Emily E-lie- no, sorry, liza-beth and I have a dog named Clifford. We saw a sing – sorry – sign – that said the kirc – wait – circus was in two – no – town.”

The pair next to him had also started reading, and along with the rest of the class, the noise level increased, messing with his hearing aids. He wet his lips and took a breath. How the hell was he supposed to do this? He could barely read on his own, let alone to someone else, and the noise was distracting and garbled in his ears, furthering his issue.

Katie was staring at him, an inquisitive look in her big blue eyes.

Clint went back to the book. The next sentence wasn’t any longer than the first, but some of the words repeated and often that would make him lose his place. He took a breath, tried to block out the noise. “We saw a smaller sing – sign –

“Are you okay?” Katie asked, head tilted to the side.

Clint didn’t really understand her since the noise drowned out her words and he hadn’t been looking at her to read her lips.

“Can you read?” she inquired off his blank look.

Clint hung his head. He’d been watching her that time and felt like an idiot having a first grader question his literacy. “Yeah, just…” How to finish that? I can read but not out loud? Too lame. I _can_ read but not here and now? I can’t read to you?

“You sure you’re okay?” Katie asked again.

Clint gave her a tiny smile but shook his head. He positioned his head so she could see his hearing aid as he pointed to it. “It’s loud in here.”

Katie’s eyes were wide. “Are you a robot?”

Clint grinned but shook his head. “I don’t hear too good. These things help me with that.”

“Oh.” She looked around the room for a moment before trying to shush the pair nearest them. They ignored her much to her dismay.

Clint tapped at the desk in front of her to get her attention. “I also have dyslexia,” he explained then clarified, “which means I have trouble reading.”

Katie frowned deeply. “Do they have a robot part to help with that too?”

Clint shook his head, wondering briefly when he became a robot, but whatever. “But I have someone who helps me. Her name is Pepper and we meet after school. She works with me on my spelling and stuff.”

“I’m a good speller,” Katie piped in. “I can spell Mississippi.” She rattled off the letters and between not being able to really hear them and not being all that great at putting letters together anyway, Clint took her at her word.

Katie sat there a moment, seemingly deep in thought. After a minute she shrugged. “It’s okay if we don’t read this one; Nanny read it to me last night. She always reads me a bedtime story.”

Clint caught most of her story, but his mind clung to the idea that she’d read it before. She knew how the story went, more or less. And between that and the pictures…

“Would it be okay if I signed it to you?”

“Huh?”

“Sign. Like sign language.” He demonstrated signing his name and that he was deaf. Katie watched him, enthralled.

“You’ll do that for the whole story?”

He nodded. He knew they were supposed to be working on the little kids’ reading skills, but it sounded like Katie got some of that at home. So why not teach her something that would help both of them. Not that reading and signing was much easier with his dyslexia, but he at least wouldn’t have to read aloud and that was major pressure off.

Clint turned the book so it was sideways between them. He reread the first page and then signed it to Katie. She watched his hands with wide-eyed intrigue.

They didn’t get finished before time was up. Before Clint left, though, Katie grabbed his hand and asked, “What’s my name in sign?”

Clint fingerspelled it for her, doing so slowly so she could copy the movements. She signed it back to him and he spoke as he signed, “Good.” He waved and left, trailing behind his class.

It’d been nice just getting to sign like that. The only other time he got to do it continuously was when he was talking to Phil. Steve understood the most out of his foster brothers, but there was more fingerspelling than actual sign with him. The only other person who could follow a conversation in ASL was Tasha.

His shoulders slumped. He recalled how he’d taught her her name and “nice to meet you” on their first meeting. Teaching it to Katie had been so similar. And it just hurt.

He wanted to talk to his best friend again, in any language: English, ASL, even what little he knew in Russian. But she wasn’t in any of his classes – students were mostly split up alphabetically and B and R were too far apart – and he doubted she’d talk to him even if she was.

After all, Clint was “silly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My roommate last year had dyslexia. I tried to capture how she described it, but it was tough. So sorry if that's a little off/ over exaggerated.
> 
> But YAY! for 1st Grade Kate who, being like 6, goes by Katie in my world.


	10. Chapter 10

**Scene 10**

 

_Working late. Can you pick Clint up from tutoring? – P_

Steve rolled his eyes but texted back, _Sure can._ It wasn’t that he minded staying after school to pick up his foster brother. It was that ever since he’d gotten his license he’d been the bus to the rest of the bunch. He really couldn’t complain too much, though; Phil paid the insurance and gave him some money for gas. But once again he’d be at the school until four fifteen and then have to drive to the elementary school to pick Clint up at four thirty. With a sigh he resigned to dedicating his time in the art room working on his semester project. He glanced at the teacher to make sure her back was turned before he texted Peggy to have her meet him there.

Once school let out, Steve made his way to the art room, passing Bruce in the hall who was no doubt on his way to catch the bus home. He and Tony had their dual credit physics class at the community college tonight. They caught a ride with one of the older kids in the class. Pym? Something like that.

Steve entered the art room to wave of paint and turpentine crashing over him. He loved that smell. And not because one could get high off it – Tony – but because it reminded him of the little “studio” his mother had made for him growing up. It was really an old desk shoved up against the wall on his father’s side of his parent’s bedroom. But his mother kept his paint supply stocked and his pencils sharpened. He figured it out when he was older that it made it easy on her to keep and eye on him while she was so ill that getting out of bed wasn’t always an option. It kept him away from potential asthma triggers outside, gave her the ability to monitor hi s diabetes. And Steve liked sitting there, drawing until his little heart was content. Even after he met Bucky and they started playing outside and got away from Steve’s house, he still liked sitting at that old desk and creating adventures on paper.

Then Bucky had left.

His mother had died.

He did some sketching after that, mostly of Clint or Lucky or Phil. But it wasn’t until spring last year when he’d brought himself to take an art class. The smell of paint brought back all those memories and he found more often than not they were good ones.

So he stuck around, stayed after sometimes to help his teacher, Miss Hawthorne, clean up. He liked her. She had a no-nonsense attitude in class but outside it she could rival Tony or Clint for the sarcasm award.

“Go home, Steve,” she pleaded when she saw him enter. “I’ve seen your mug ‘round these parts enough this week.”

“Sorry, Miss Hawthorne. But I’m waiting on my brother.”

“Well I suppose that’s reason enough.” She put a crappy watercolor to the side, most likely giving its creator far more points than what it deserved. But if she didn’t get the lazy ones out of her class their freshman or sophomore year, then she’d only have to deal with them again later.

Steve sat down at the drawing table that he liked to think was his. He knew a different student used it every class period, but that didn’t stop him from claiming it as his own. He went to his shelf in the corner that housed all the other student’s artwork, tracing his fingers until he found his name in Miss Hawthorne’s sloppy handwriting. He pulled out a thick folder that housed his ongoing project.

Bringing it over to his desk, he flipped through the carefully inked pages, counting them. Sixteen pages down, six to go. Standard floppy was twenty-two pages, or so he’d heard somewhere.

He wasn’t sure when he’d decided to do a comic book based on his Hawkeye and Captain Flagg doodles. He supposed the idea came about when he’d given Clint the bound collection of them. That had had a loose storyline tying them together. This one. This one was a narrative. He hadn’t told Clint that he’d given Hawkeye a very similar backstory as the boy’s. And the eagle Captain Flagg’s history was Steve’s own. Even their friend and sometimes helper, Fal-Con, shared many similarities to Sam. Trick was in it as the fox who was their informant; Steve couldn’t bring himself to kill him off like he’d originally planned, though. That felt too cruel, like he’d wanted it to happen to the original Trick and that was not the case.

Tony showed up sometimes too. Originally he was a talking trashcan, but Steve nixed that idea since it didn’t fit with the animal theme. So he made Tony and Bruce scientist consultants that worked for the same division of the government that Flagg and Hawkeye did. He also made them owls. President Coulson was a badger simply because that was Wisconsin’s state animal. Peggy was a pine Marten – despite the animal being more popular in Scotland than her native England. But he thought it fit her. Natasha was in there as a black house cat. And Bucky…

He’d never been able to put Bucky on a page. He’d thought about it over and over again, but couldn’t find a place for him in the comic. He didn’t want to make him an enemy but he wasn’t a friend anymore really. Bucky had changed. Steve had even considered making him a chameleon for that reason.

A set of arms came to wrap around his waist and he smiled. “Hi,” he greeted softly, standing up from his desk chair to hug her properly.

“Hello,” Peggy answered back, accent forming her greeting into, as she said, the proper way words should sound.

He smiled and kissed her cheek.

Peggy picked up the inked pages, flipping through them with awe in her eyes. “Oh, Steve, these are beautiful!”

Steve fought off the blush threatening to creep up to his cheeks. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to people looking at his art. He knew he’d have to if he wanted to do comics professionally. But for now it still made him nervous.

“You think so?” he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

Peggy gave him a venom-less glare. “Stop being so modest.” She set the pages down and carefully looked at his current sheet. She – well, her animal representation – was in the third panel, talking to Flagg and Hawkeye. They appeared to be at a woodland soda shop called _Tree_ ts. The pun made her roll her eyes. “So have you looked into publishing yet?”

Steve shook his head and retook his seat. “I want to get a few more adventures done before I look into it. That way I’ll have more to show a publisher or if I sell them myself there will be more product for people to buy.”

Peggy nodded and sat down beside him. “And after you become a famous comic artist?” She propped her chin on one hand and looked at him with playful eyes.

Steve grinned lopsidedly and shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know. Buy a house. Start a family. Maybe foster some kids like Phil does.” He went back to drawing. “Of course I’d have to have one awesome woman by my side to handle everything.”

Peggy shook her head but kept her smile on. “She’d have to be truly amazing.” She smirked. “And a little crazy for marrying an artist.”

“She’d like my sensitive nature,” Steve teased back.

Peggy leaned in. “Maybe she’d ask you to paint her nude.”

Steve’s pencil lead broke; his hand froze on the page, but his mind was running at a million miles an hour. Peggy pecked him on the cheek and then stood up, saying she had to get to her babysitting job.

After she left Steve took in a breath only to find Miss Hawthorne looking at him with a raised brow.

“Uh…” he started, hoping she hadn’t heard the tail end of that conversation.

“Redder than a tomato, Rogers,” she mumbled. Then she added, “Don’t let me catch you two in the supply room. I’ve kicked enough necking couple out of there. I mean, Jesus, I just want some paint thinner. Don’t make me have to fish out the holy water to wash my eyes too.”

Steve was only half paying attention to his art teacher. He tried concentrating on his page, but couldn’t seem to stick to it. He was glad when his phone alarm went off for him to go pick up Clint. He waved goodbye to Miss Hawthorne and had his mind mostly focused by the time he got to his car. Mostly.

Clint threw his backpack in the back and then strapped in to the passenger seat without a word. Steve didn’t push or pry. Clint had been getting quieter all semester so complete silence wasn’t much of a surprise. Besides, Steve remembered being thirteen. He’d had plenty of days when he’d wished he could have gone radio silent on the world.

They stopped at a red light and Steve leaned an elbow on the window ledge while he waited for the light to change.

Across the street in the left hand turn lane there was a guy on a motorcycle. He had a helmet on and sunglasses, but something about him caught Steve’s attention. Something had the hair on the back of his neck standing at attention.

The guy turned, crossing in front of them and that’s when Steve noticed the guy had a passenger. And wait, was that…

Clint let out a groan and pressed his head up against the window.

“Was that Natasha?” Steve couldn’t help but ask.

“Yeah,” Clint mumbled. There was acid in his voice.

“Who’s that with her?”

“James,” Clint spat.

The light turned green. Steve didn’t react, too caught up on Clint’s answer. _James?_ It couldn’t be.

“It’s green, Steve,” Clint remarked, pulling Steve out of his trailing thoughts. The rest of the drive was in silence, but Steve’s thoughts were screaming. It couldn’t be him. It _couldn’t_. And why was Natasha with him? Was she dating him? That…

No. It couldn’t be.

But _James._

Clint was out of the car the minute Steve pulled into the driveway. The older boy stayed in the car for a minute replaying the scene in his head. He hadn’t gotten a good enough look to confirm anything, but something was nagging at him. Maybe it was intuition or something more mystic, but he swore he’d seen him, that that guy had been him.

He pulled the keys for the ignition and leaned his head back against the cushioned rest. Letting a breath out to the roof of the car he whispered, “Bucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little check in with Steve this time around. And Peggy too, of course. 
> 
> So what's up with Natasha and James and The Street? That, dear readers, will have to wait until next week. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and Kudos-ing. (And Happy Valentine's Day to those celebrating.) See you next week! :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ: Mentions of abuse physical abuse, undertones of mental abuse, and gang activity are in this chapter. Heed my warning. 
> 
> ALSO: I'd like to address some concerns that showed up in the comments regarding Nat's treatment of Clint. While I can't get too much into detail as it would tangle up with the procession of the plot, I will say this: Natasha is 13, she's - as you will find out in this chapter - not living in a positive atmosphere and feels trapped. Her choice to push Clint away to keep him safe seems to her to be the only one she has. Again, she's young and hasn't had time nor experience to show her to look for better options. I hope this chapter helps explain that. 
> 
> Thanks,   
> \- Z-Socks

**Scene 11**

Reddington Street had once been a shining example of the American Way. After World War Two it had been developed as a stable community for baby boomers looking for a comfortable and affordable place to live. But as time went on and urban sprawling demanded new condos and subdivisions be built, Reddington fell into the hands of lower and lower income families every year. In the Eighties, it saw its first drug crime. In the Nineties it’s first riot. Windows were boarded if not barred, grass overgrown from repossessed homes left empty. Paint chipped and flaked into pools of urine or blood. Police visited some part of the street nearly everyday.

Then the Russians took over. A group of them moved in over night and took the turf as their own. Resistance was met with violent ends. A hierarchy was set up and one man – the Czar – controlled all drug deals, all arms and ammunition. He owned the street.

Eventually the cops quit coming.

During a skirmish with the neighboring gang, the main street sign was damaged leaving only the first letters. The Czar liked that.

Red Street.

Red for the Motherland. Red for blood.

Bucky turned left onto the familiar street and felt Natasha’s arms tighten around his waist. He couldn’t blame her. He didn’t want to be here any more than she did.

He pulled up to her house and killed the engine on his motorcycle. Natasha clung on.

<You’re already late, Nat,> he told her in her native tongue. Living on the street for over four years had taught him the language.

She didn’t move, still clinging to him.

Bucky sighed. <I’ll be by tonight to check in.>

She was reluctant, but eventually peeled herself from his protection and shuffled towards the door of the place she was supposed to call home. But this was not home. She’d seen what home was supposed to be: a nice house on a safe street full of rowdy teenagers and one smiling aspiring archer getting his hair ruffled by the man who’d adopted him.

This was not home.

She opened the door and shut it quietly, avoiding the floorboards that creaked as she made her way to the stairs that led up to her room. But as sneaky and silent as she was, the man behind her had trained her. He knew her motions as he knew his own.

<You’re late,> he grunted.

Natasha froze in her tracks. <Madame went over time today. We were learning advanced steps.>

The man frowned but accepted her answer. With another grunt he ordered, <Go cook.>

Natasha set her dance bag and backpack at the bottom of the steps and scrambled to the kitchen glad to have not been given punishment for her tardiness. However, the kitchen provided a perfect stage for a lecture.

The man sat down at the table and lit up a cigarette. Blowing it out he watched her with a tired stare. He’d been busy today, arranging a deal with the boys to intimidate the latest contractor looking to revamp the street. When would these people learn Red Street belonged to the Russians. To the Czar, Ivan Petrovich. To him.

He took another drag. <Natalia, Natalia, oh how I wish you were older. I’m getting too far up in years to keep doing this.> Another drag. <Soon it will be you. The Czarina of Red Street. A red queen for the Russians.> He noticed her shoulders tensing at his words. Sloppy move on her part. <My heir is inheriting a large but well used throne.> He stood up and came next to her, placing a stern hand on the back of her neck, stilling her motions. <But you are young still. You have not learned discipline and grace. That is why you must learn to dance. And once you do, this empire will be yours.>

“Empire of thieves and murderers,” she mumbled in English, turning the sausage in the skillet.

<What was that?>

<I said dinner is almost ready,> she lied.

He studied her closely, a puff of smoke into her face. He sat down at the table and monitored her as she set plates out and dished up the sausage and potatoes she’d made. She was tired of such food. A rogue thought of the multitude of times she’d grabbed a burger with Clint, of him begging Phil to let them get milkshakes, at some little diner near the school surfaced and almost made her lose her grip on the skillet. Why that memory? Why now?

Ivan stabbed at his meal and chewed it methodically. Natasha nibbled at hers, trying to ignore the intensity of the man’s stare that was locked on her. She was under his constant surveillance…even when she wasn’t in the house.

Halfway through dinner, a knock came at the door. Ivan stood and answered it, greeting the visitors with open arms. < Konstantin, Mikhail, come in.> He brought them to the kitchen, sitting them down at the table. He turned to Natasha.

<Natalia, make up some dinner for our friends.>

<I have schoolwork, Ivan. I need->

<What you need is to do what I say, foolish girl. Or else you will end up like your parents.>

Natasha wanted to argue, but knew better. She turned on the stove to begin cooking more sausage.

<My friends,> Ivan greeted, <what brings you here?>

<I am afraid it is not good news,> Mikhail began. He took a deep breath. <The Ukrainians have skimped us on our profit this month.>

<Again,> Konstantin added.

Ivan raised a brow. <Again?>

Mikhail looked nervous. <The Ukrainians do a lot of business with us, Ivan. We let them off with a warning last time.>

<You see now that was a mistake.>

The visitors nodded.

Ivan sighed deeply. <I do not wish to damage our relations with the Ukrainians. They make good money on our drug and arms trade. But we cannot let them think we will tolerate them withholding our share of the profit.> He leaned back in his chair, deliberating. He turned his gaze onto Natasha. “What do you think, Natalia?>

Nat froze. _Oh god,_ she thought. _Please don’t make me do this._ Answering meant giving into this life. Not doing so would have immediate consequences, most likely painful. But giving in, bowing before the Czar and doing his wishes would cement her future in this. If it started now, she’d never get out. But she was tired of the bruises, of the burns from cigarettes pressed into her skin. She didn’t know how much she could endure.

 _Just tonight,_ she told herself. She turned off the heat on the stovetop and turned to the three men awaiting her answer. How did that saying go? Out of the frying pan and into the fire?

<We intercept the next shipment to the Ukrainians and sell it back to them at double the price to make up for the loss of profit. If they refuse to pay, we tip off the police and let them handle it. We can blame it on their own sloppiness if anyone inquires.>

Ivan grinned and Natasha felt her heart sink. He was proud. Now she’d never leave.

Ivan turned to the other men. <This is a good plan. Consider it law.> They nodded and left. Ivan stood and approached his heir. <Very good, Natalia. You are a natural.> He patted her on the shoulder in a manner that in some other dimension was probably supposed to be comforting. <Go. You have schoolwork.>

She fled, mentally berating herself for such a show of weakness. Ivan would surely note her eagerness to leave. She swiped her bags from the end of the stairs and ran to her room.

It took more than a few minutes to get her hands to stop shaking. This is it, she thought. _This is my life, my future. He’ll never let me go. I-_

A sharp sound echoed off her window. It repeated, drawing her attention there. She peered out and saw a familiar shape silhouetted in the autumn moonlight.

She opened the window and lowered the rope, ignoring her mind’s drift towards a recollected moment of Clint signing to her the story of Rapunzel. Or as his poor-at-spelling hands put it, “Rapensle.”

“I saw two goons come in. Everything okay?” Bucky asked in a hushed tone, crawling through the window.    

Nat shook her head. She sat on the floor and hugged her knees to her chest. “He’s dead set on me inheriting all this, James. He even asked me to plan out our move against the Ukrainians.” She collapsed her head and held back the stinging tears in her eyes. “I can’t stand it, James. I can’t let this be my life. I don’t want this. I want to go to college, become something that won’t hurt people.”

Bucky sat across from her on the floor, legs crossed in front of him. He pulled at a thread on the rug. “We need an escape plan.”

Natasha lifted her head and stared at him curiously. “An escape plan?” She shook her head. “Where in hell would we possibly go? And how? We don’t have money. We’re both too young to not be in school. Someone would find us and send us back here instantly. And then what?” Her head dropped to her knees again. “Coming back would be so much worse than staying. We’d be traitors, James. They’d torture us.”

Bucky frowned and leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out. “I’ll be eighteen in two years, Nat. I could become your guardian or something. I could legally move you away from here.”

She frowned. It was nice, wonderful even, of him to offer. But it was weak. It was a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound.

“We could always go to the police,” he offered. But they both knew that was not an option. Ivan had half the force on his payroll. It kept the black and whites off Red Street.

Nat sighed deeply and stared at her friend. “Two years, huh?”

He nodded. “Can you hold on that long?”

She’d have to. It might be her only chance. But that meant dealing with Ivan and his training for two more years. It meant watching people she knew get the shit beat out of them for not paying up for the “protection” the Russians provided them. It meant having to push away everyone she cared about for fear that they’d become a target, that Russians or any other street empire would hurt them. Because if anything happened to them, it’d be on her.

If anything happened to Clint, she’d be to blame.

James had done his best to make peace with and accept that. He’d shoved his best friend away long ago. Natasha just didn’t see how it was possible. Giving up someone like that…it meant giving up pieces of your heart.

And she wasn’t sure she had much to spare.


	12. Chapter 12

**Scene 12**

Bruce pulled his glasses off his face and wiped them down for the thousandth time on his shirt. He was nervous. His pulse had to be nearing an unhealthy level due to the stress. What if he gave himself early onset hypertension? That was a thing, right? He cleaned the left lens.

 _Relax,_ he told himself. _You can do this. Remember, there’s a dishes free month in it for you._ He cleaned the right lens. _It’s Betty, just Betty. You’ve talked to her a dozen times. True, about science, but you can do this. Relationships are chemistry, right? Right?_ He cleaned the left lens again.

Betty Ross walked into the lab, waved casually to Bruce, and began to set up her table for her after school experimentation.

 _Ask her what she’s working on; that’ll be a good start._ Bruce shoved his glasses onto his nose. “H-hey, B-Betty, what’cha got going on h-here?”

She smiled at him and Bruce felt his knees go a little weak. She was gorgeous, with her dark hair and bright eyes. And so smart and perfect and-

“Just a little sampling. I’m researching hypoallergenic foods. Like strawberries for example. People who are allergic to them could in fact be allergic to the red pigmentation. Remove the red, remove the allergy.”

Bruce nodded, pulling his glasses off his face again and wiping down the lenses once more. “That’s cool.” _It’s now or never_. “Hey, so uh, would you want to maybe,” he looked up at her. He stopped. God, he couldn’t do this. Even if he did have the nerve, her father would kill him. And why shouldn’t he? Bruce had sent a kid to the hospital; he’d lost his cool, beat the shit out of a guy, and had been arrested. He knew Tony had done something to get him off easy. Phil had chalked it up to his condition and got his meds adjusted as soon as he could. But that didn’t change the fact that it happened. Officer Ross knew this, understood it. And dating his daughter just wasn’t feasible with such a notion stuck in the guy’s head.

His sentence was still dangling from where his thoughts had taken over, so Bruce returned his glasses to his face and switched tracks. “Would you maybe want some help?” Because science he could do. It was safe.

Betty smiled and Bruce felt his stomach flip. “Sure,” she answered, passing him a notebook and a pair of safety goggles. “An extra set of hands never hurts.”

Bruce slid the goggles on over his glasses and silently accepted his fate of eternal pining and dirty dishes.

 

“Jane?” Darcy called, stepping over a grouping of vases full of bouquets of flowers. “Where are you?” She moved aside some roses and almost knocked over another vase.

“In the back,” came a familiar voice.

Darcy swerved around some more overflowing bouquets and picked her way over a bunch of chrysanthemums. “What’s with the flowers? You opening up a greenhouse in space?” She reached the back room of Jane’s house only to find her friend sitting on the only patch of flower-free floor, staring dumbly at the mess of petals and stems surrounding her. “Jane?”

Jane didn’t look up, eyes still fixed on the massive amount of flowers around her. “They’re everywhere,” Jane whispered.

Darcy sat next to her, pulling her knees up to her chest to stay in the flowerless circle. “I can see that. Did you put your house number as the quantity number again like you did with those pizzas that one time?”

“Bless that guy who called to make sure I didn’t really want a hundred and fifty-two pizzas.” Jane kept her eyes on the encroaching flowers. She extended a hand towards them. “These are not mine.”

“Well they’re in _your_ house. How’d they get here?” A look around. “All one thousand of them?”

Jane shook her head. “I really don’t know. One minute I’m perusing a PDF of Brahe’s notes, the next I’m answering the door for the Frankie’s Flowers delivery guy and his army of helpers. He handed me a card.” She stood up, shuffled around a few vases and pulled out a gold embossed piece of cardstock, handing it to Darcy.

“’To my fair maiden. I enjoyed dinner.’” Darcy looked up at Jane. “Wait, these are from that guy you mowed over with your car?” Her voice got louder on the end, higher pitched.

Jane just nodded, looking dumbfounded at the flowers. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with these.”

Darcy shrugged. “Press ‘em. Put ‘em in a book. Use them as evidence against the nut job when you have to testify in court.”

Jane looked at her. “You really think he’s crazy?”

“He sent you a billion flowers, Jane!”

“Seventy bouquets, actually. Mom counted.”

“Whatever. It’s creepy, excessive.” She picked up a flower. “And I’m kind of jealous.”

“What?”

Darcy smiled. “This guy’s got it bad for you, Jane.” She swiped a rose from a vase and put it between her teeth. “Andappricatesagrand-“ she took the flower out at Jane’s confused look. “And appreciates a grand gesture.”

“But what am I going to do with all these?”

Darcy shrugged. “Got any cousins getting married this weekend? You could donate them to the reception hall or something.”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Maybe I’ll see if the conservation club needs some compost material.”

Darcy scoffed. “Thinking with the science brain.” She threw her hands up. “Fine. Whatever. But you really should just keep one.”

“For evidence?”

“For nostalgia. To remember the time a guy cared about you enough to go through the hassle of sending you a shit ton of flowers just to show his affection.”

“But I don’t want flowers,” Jane muttered. “They don’t _do_ anything once they’ve been cut.”

“Could you at least try to be romantic for like two seconds? Jane, it takes a lot of time and money to wrangle this many flowers. Can’t you appreciate that this guy did that for you?”

Jane picked at a rose petal and thought about what Darcy was saying. She knew she should be excited, flattered. But this was overwhelming. She’d never been a fan of grand gestures; she liked the little things. But it seemed that there was nothing about Thor Odinson that was little. He was massive. His acts were in equal reaction.

Darcy sat next to her friend. “You know, maybe you should talk to him. Tell him thanks for the gift but that it’s too much.”

“Think he’ll listen?”

Darcy smiled. “I don’t think he has plans to miss a single word you say.”

Jane nodded, feeling her cheeks go a little pink. She’d never had a boy have a crush on her, especially like this. And she didn’t necessarily want it. Boys took up time and energy that she didn’t really have. But maybe…

Maybe.

“Fine. I’ll talk to him. But only because this needs to end.”

Darcy held up her hands in an innocent gesture. “Whatever you say.” But she had a gut feeling that Jane might eventually come around.

Maybe.

 

Tony could think of exactly thirty-nine other things he’d rather be doing than serving slimy food from a can to dingy, dirty homeless people. He’d only been at the shelter for an hour and already he had four blueprints mapped out in his head for an automated system to feed these guys.

He tried to smile as a toothless grin greeted him, showing appreciation for the ball of mac and cheese Tony had just scooped onto his tray. Seriously, no food should be round like that. And what kind of cheese was radioactive orange? Not to mention rubbery. It was like someone had melted down a construction barrel for the sauce.

The next tray was handed to him and he scooped some more offensive imitation food onto the Styrofoam. After the old lady left with it shaking precariously in her Parkinson’s hand, the homeless shelter soup kitchen leader announced that the volunteers could grab their own meal and take a seat with the guests.

Tony cringed at the words. But a full tray was handed to him and the kitchen leader was practically shoving him towards the long picnic tables that housed the smelly homeless people. He was the only teenager there and the kitchen leader – whom Tony decided to mentally call Soup Kitchen Nazi – seemed eager to get the teen out there. Maybe it was because it made the organization look good – having strong, capable young people volunteer probably gave them style points or something. Or maybe it was because Tony hadn’t quit whining since he’d gotten there and the Soup Kitchen Nazi thought spending some time with people who had real troubles would teach him a thing or two.

Tony sat down next to the individual whom he deemed least offensive to his olfactory senses while mentally adding an odor neutralizer to his plans for an automated serving staff.

With a sigh he picked at this road construction mac and cheese, sawdust mashed potatoes, and from-a-can “turkey and gravy.”

“It’s getting cold out,” the man next to him muttered. He had a lightly accented voice that Tony couldn’t quite place. But his diction was impeccable.

“November will do that,” Tony replied, still refusing to put any of the mush on his plate into his mouth. He’d never complain about Phil’s somewhat repetitive meals ever again.

The man took a drink of thick black coffee. He was a small man, slight in build and with thinning grey hair. He wore plain clothing that was dirty but not shabby. On his nose was a pair of round spectacles. “Reminds me of home.”

Thinking politeness a better alternative to the permanent ruin of his taste buds, Tony asked, “Oh yeah? Where’s that?”

“Gulmira.” He stuck out his weathered hand. “I’m Yinsen.”    

Tony shook the offered hand a little hesitantly. “Tony.”

“Forgive me,” Yinsen began, “but the resemblance is... are you related to the late Howard Stark?”

Tony immediately shut down. He’d always resented how much he looked like his father. To be his son, to look like him, it hurt. He hated his father. The man had been cold, distant. He’d spend far more time with a bottle than his own son, that was for sure. And nothing Tony ever did was good enough. And then the man had died and Tony thought he was free. But his father’s face stared back at him every morning in the mirror.

Yinsen still seemed to be looking for an answer so Tony stabbed the ball of orange noodles on this tray and said, “No.”

The man shrank back, returned his attention to his own meal.

A glare from the Soup Kitchen Nazi had Tony fishing around his head for other topics to continue this _wonderful_ conversation. _Date with Pepper,_ he reminded himself.  

“So, uh, how long you been here? The U.S., I mean. Not… here.” He waved his hand around, indicating the shelter.

“I came to America five years ago,” he answered. “Before I was a translator in Afghanistan. I helped American troops. I was offered Visa to the states. I refused it. They wouldn’t let my family come with me.” He sighed. “They were killed in a bombing later. I asked for Visa then and was denied. Said I needed proper paperwork. It was a long task, a huge task. Complicated. Only I and two others made it here that year.” He took a bite of his meal. “America has not been as kind as I’d thought it would be.”

Tony frowned, his tray long forgotten. His mind had drifted to Josefina, or Jossie as he’d called her. She was a Latina nanny his father had hired to take care of him. For a long time he didn’t know other children didn’t have such a thing, nor that they didn’t grow up speaking hints of Argentinian Spanish. He still knew some words.

Jossie had left behind three kids when she’d come to America. She’d sent them to live with her sister until she had enough money to bring them all to the states. But even working for a rich man like Stark, building up such a fund took time. And before she could make enough, her children had been caught in the crosshairs of a terrible hurricane and had been lost in the resulting flooding. Jossie quit after that. Tony never followed up on her. He wondered if he should.

The man cleared his throat and ate some more. Tony watched him, his curiosity piqued. The man spoke English, was a translator. Which meant he knew more than one language. Why would he know that? “What did you do before you were a translator?”

Yinsen smiled sadly. “I was – and still am – a scientist. I just mop lab floors now instead of work in them.”

Tony tilted his head. “No one hired you?”

“My background check throws a few red flags.” Another bite of shelter food. “I had hoped to work for Stark Industries. I was denied.”

Tony looked away from Yinsen, a rock in the pit of his stomach.

According to the lawyers, Tony didn’t get any stake in the family company until he was twenty-one. The man currently serving as CEO was his dad’s best friend and business partner, Obadiah Stane. Tony had always had mixed feelings about the guy. On one hand, Obie had been more paternal to Tony than his own father, but on the other, when Howard had died, Obie didn’t exactly step up to the child-care plate. He took the company and the money and the property. Tony had been sent to foster care. Not that he minded too terribly; Phil was fantastic and he’d already known Clint and Steve.

But Obie hadn’t wanted him. His own father hadn’t wanted him.

Maybe it made him secretly feel good that they hadn’t wanted this scientist sitting next to him either. But only because it made him feel less alone.

Tony stuck his fork in his mac and cheese ball. “Their loss,” he mumbled. And then, “If you’re still in town in seven years try again. You might get a different answer from ole’ SI.” He picked up his tray but then set it back down. He stuck out his hand. “Good to meet ya, Yinsen.”

“And you, Tony.” He had a smile on his face, a knowing smile. And Tony got the feeling that this fellow scientist had known exactly who he was talking to the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the boys aren't quite there yet when it comes to getting their girls. But they're learning...
> 
> Thanks as always to everyone for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and Kudos-ing! You're the absolute best and I hope to see you next week. :)


	13. Chapter 13

**Scene 13**     

Clint shut his locker and balanced his needed books under his arm. His eyes scanned the hallway out of habit and he caught the flash of her red hair. But her eyes didn’t venture in his direction like they used to. His shoulders sank. He knew he should be used to it by now, but he was still clinging to the hope that she would come back, that she would go back to being the Tasha he’d been best friends with, had hoped to maybe be more than that someday. What a ridiculous wish; he knew that now.

He dropped his books on this desk in science class and buried his head in his arms on the faux-wooden top. A familiar scent reached his nose. It was something sharp but not unpleasant: a hair gel he was unfortunately acquainted with.

“Go away,” Clint mumbled.

The boy next to him laughed subtly. Clint peeked an eye out over his shirtsleeve to see Loki in his familiar dark green hoodie and black skinny jeans. He’d painted his nails black for the first time last week. No one dared tease him

about it. Clint knew from his now seemingly expired friendship with Natasha that fingernail polish chipped away after only a few days, so Loki had obviously kept up with it. The snake pendant around his neck was new though.

Loki stayed where he was. “Is that any way to treat your friend?”

Clint’s head shot up and he stared at the boy before him. “Since when are we friends?”

Loki shrugged, flipped his swept bangs out of his eyes only to have them fall back in place. “I don’t exactly see anyone else lining up.”

Clint groaned and slammed his head back down. “We’re not friends.”

“Suit yourself.” A pause. “But if we were, I’d tell you how you could win back your best friend.” He leaned in. “Or was it more than that?”

Clint did his best to ignore Loki. But he was curious, maybe a little desperate. It wouldn’t hurt to hear the kid out, right? He lifted his head only to see Loki’s face split into a wide grin. Dammit.

“You need to get her attention,” he mused.

Clint rolled his eyes. “Big help.”

“I wasn’t done. No, you need to do something bold, something daring. Something… memorable.” He put a finger to his chin in concentration. Clint wasn’t sure if it was an act or not. “I know. Pull the fire alarm.”

Clint recoiled. “No way!”

“Why not?”

“It’s illegal!”

“Only if you get caught,” Loki shrugged.

Clint’s skin prickled at those words. How many times had Trick or Barn said the exact same thing?

Loki leaned in. “Natasha’s into this James character, right?”

Clint frowned, turned his gaze back to his desk.

“Motorcycle, leather jacket. Clinton, she likes the bad boys. You want her attention you’re going to have to ditch innocence and embrace your dark side.” He flipped his bangs again. “Shouldn’t be too hard, right? Runs in the family. You’re _real_ family, that is.” He examined his painted nails, chipped away a corner then frowned at the pale nail underneath. The color had left behind a faint bluish stain. He turned back to Clint who had been watching him. Loki never could decide what to think of the boy’s gaze. It was always so _intense_.

He stood up. “If you do decide to go after what you want, I’d consider it a favor if it was during third class. I didn’t study for my history test.” He left for his desk.

Clint tried concentrating on their lesson – binomial nomenclature – but his brain kept repeating Loki’s suggestion over and over. It was stupid; he knew it was stupid. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. Loki made a good point, a really good point. Tasha was drooling over James and he wasn’t the clean-cut type. Maybe she did go for a little danger. And he could be dangerous. Real dangerous. And sneaky. Yeah. He could pull this off. He could pull the fire alarm, get Nat’s attention back. He could be the “bad boy” she wants. He could be anything, do anything if it meant getting her back.

So that was how he found himself detouring away from the bathroom he’d used as his excuse to leave class and to the bright red rectangle on the wall.

A shiver went up his spine as his fingers stretched for it. The cool plastic felt alien on his fingertips, electric with the adrenaline pumping through his veins. This was more than some stupid prank; this was action. It was him taking his life into his hands and doing _something_ , to win back his friend, to show her he cared about her and wanted to make her happy. That he loved her.

“What are you doing?” an impossible voice asked from behind him.

His fingers stilled on the alarm as his head whipped around to see her over his shoulder. “Tasha?” Maybe Loki really had been right. Just quicker than he’d anticipated.

Natasha was watching him carefully, arms folded over her chest. “Clint, what are you doing?”

There was something in her voice, something patronizing. Like he was a toddler who didn’t understand that underwear didn’t count as pants or that chocolate milk didn’t come from brown cows. That pissed him off. He wasn’t a baby! He knew what he was doing and why he was doing it. He went on the defense. “I could ask you the same thing. Aren’t you supposed to be in math right now?”

Nat ducked her head, came to lean up against the wall next to Clint. “What can I say? I don’t care about learning the FOIL method.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Nat.” He flexed his fingers against the plastic. “Oh wait, I forgot. You don’t care about anything.”

She might’ve flinched. Clint wasn’t sure. Once upon a time he would’ve known but now…

“Will you take your hand off that thing? You’re going to get in trouble.”

Clint narrowed his brows. His fingers stayed poised on the alarm. “No. No, not until you tell me what the hell is going on with you.”

“Clint.”

“Tasha, please! I’ve been driving myself crazy for months trying to think of what I did to push you away or piss you off what whatever it was. And I can’t think of anything! So if it’s something I did just please tell me so I can make up for it and we can go back to being friends because I _miss_ you, Nat. I miss you so much! You’re my best friend. And I don’t want something stupid to take that away.”

“Then take your hand off the alarm.”

“I will once you tell me.”

“Clint, come on, you’re going to get in trouble.”

“I’ll take my hand off it once you tell me.” He hated how winy his voice had become.

“Clint, you’re being-”

“What? Silly? I’m sorry I forgot you don’t do silly things with me anymore.”

She looked honestly hurt by that and he hated himself for causing it. But dammit, she wasn’t making this easy.

She sighed. “It wasn’t you, okay. But I can’t tell you what it is.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. She was sure she looked pitiful.

His hand slacked, resting on the alarm but not leaving it. “Tasha… Tash what’s going on? Is someone hurting you?”

She had to get out of there. She couldn’t be near him and his damn perceptiveness. She was going to crack and then he’d be in danger. And it’d all be her fault. “Just go back to class, Clint.”

“Tasha, if someone’s hurting you I can help. Okay? I can make it stop. Phil can-”

“You can’t do a damn thing about this one! You can’t help me; you can’t _save_ me, Clint!”

His voice was calm, but his hand curled back into position. “Nat, tell me.”

She shook her head. “I can’t.” She tightened her arms despite knowing it’d look more like a hug than defiance. “So take your hand away and go back to class before you do something you’ll regret.”

He shook his head, stubborn as always. “No. Tell me who’s hurting you, Nat!”

“Clint-”

“What the hell is going on here?” Principal Fury’s voice roared as he came down the hall. Clint’s hand flew from the fire alarm as if it was ablaze. He snapped his head to where Natasha had been standing only to find the wall empty. She’d slipped back behind the corner, the traitor.

Clint looked up at Fury, a scrambled explanation getting lost on his tongue.

Fury glared. He towered over Clint as the boy stumbled over words like a drunk over rubble. With nothing but unintelligible syllables to go off of, Fury ordered, “Office. Now.” And Clint slunk along behind him, completely unaware of the set of green eyes watching him through black swept bangs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Gasp* Dum dum dummmm.


	14. Chapter 14

**Scene 14**

Phil was shocked. He was angry as hell. But he was more shocked than anything. And as soon as he’d stepped foot into Fury’s office and saw his son sitting there with his head bowed he recalled a case he’d worked a few years ago. He’d gone in with Maria on an investigation of a neglect allegation. The mother had sat there in a ratty floral printed chair with a cigarette in her mouth and straight up told them she didn’t have a clue where her kids were half the time. Phil had stared at her appalled and she’d laughed, something sick and choking on the pungent smoke. “Listen mister, once you got more than one you don’t have the time or energy required to keep track of them.” He almost strangled her for those words. Why should innocent children suffer from her laziness?

Now he wondered if her words were true.

Had the other boys, his work, taken so much of his time and energy that he hadn’t been keeping a close enough eye on Clint? Clint, who had almost pulled the fire alarm, almost committed a felony.

The boy sat there, still as a statue, as Phil entered and took a seat next to his son.

“Like I said over the phone,” Fury began, “he didn’t actually pull the alarm. But his intention was clear.”

Clint didn’t move a muscle.    

Fury sighed heavy and deep. Phil could see the wrinkles around the man’s eyes. The patch might have hidden most of the ones on his left, but the exhaustion was definitely there. Phil wondered distantly when the man’s retirement announcement would go out, and if it was sooner than everyone was anticipating.

Phil turned to his son who had remained stock still, head down. “Clint, look at me please.”

It was a moment before the boy’s head lifted and turned to his right to face Phil. There was something ancient in the kid’s eyes, something Phil hadn’t seen in a long time. He knew the boy was waiting for his punishment, waiting for a hand to strike him. What hurt the most wasn’t that engrained expectancy – Clint would never fully grow out of anticipating physical punishment; Phil knew that. What hurt was that the boy wasn’t showing any fear. He was so sure he’d be flogged for this in one way or another that he wasn’t even putting up the energy to be afraid of it.

Maybe Fury wasn’t the only exhausted body in the room.

Phil kept his hands still in his lap; no need to stir up what was just under the surface. “Why were you trying to pull the fire alarm?”

Clint looked at him, blue eyes blinking at the question as if unable to understand it. Phil watched his son closely, waiting with baited breath for an answer. He studied the kid’s face and shockingly noticed changes he’d missed: narrower jawline, some clusters of acne, and did one eye slant just a little more than the other?

The boy shrugged.

The action pulled Phil from his reverie sharply. “You don’t _know_?”

Clint shrugged again.

Fury exchanged a look with his vice principal and friend. He sighed again, looking older and more worn out by the minute. “Why don’t the both of you take the rest of the day to find out why young Clinton here wanted to get expelled today.”

Phil frowned at Fury’s wording but understood it was for Clint’s benefit, for him to understand the gravity of his action – or almost action.

Abandoning the piles of paperwork on his desk, Phil grabbed his coat and keys and walked Clint out to the car.

The ride home was silent, the tension thick. It was like a brewing thunderstorm in the heat of summer: still, sweltering, agitating. And the minute the front door was shut, the storm broke and unleashed its fury.

“What were you thinking?” Phil finally asked, voice raised just enough to let the boy know he wasn’t going to get out of this easily. Clint played almost everything close to the chest, but that wasn’t going to work this time around.

Clint shrugged again and Phil had to resist the urge to scream.

“That’s not an answer, Clint.”

“It is too,” he shot back, arms folded over his chest. “It’s just not one you like.”

 _God help me,_ Phil begged. “You understand what would’ve happened if you pulled it, right? You know it’s illegal. You would’ve been expelled, fined, maybe even sent to jail.”

The kid pulled in tighter to himself. Phil wished he could stop, but this couldn’t be let go. He needed an answer. “This isn’t you, Clint. You don’t do this kind of stuff.”

“How would you know?” the kid spat back, blue eyes narrowed, brow pulled.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Phil asked, folding his arms as well. He knew he should keep an open posture, but this situation had his training taking a backseat.

“It means you’re never around! It means ever since you took that stupid job and became vice principal you’re never available for anything or have time for anything.” He sniffed, tears leaking into his eyes, stinging with pain and salt and frustration. “You care more about every kid in that school than you do m-us.” The stumble on the end gave him away.

This wasn’t about some stupid fire alarm or even the job. This was about Clint and _god_ Phil felt so lost. What had been going on right under his nose? What had he missed?

He knelt down in front of his son and gently placed his hands on Clint’s shoulders. He’d grown a little. Not much but enough that he was taller than Phil when down on the ground like this. “Clint,” he breathed.

And then it happened. Clint shook his head and swatted Phil’s arms away, shrugged out of his hands and ran for his room, slamming the door shut. Phil was only a few steps behind but stopped as the door was forced into place. He stood there and stared dumbly at it, in shock. If the fire alarm had been new behavior then this was straight up alien. This wasn’t Clint; he didn’t act this way.

Did he?

What had he _missed_?

He was still pondering that question hours later then he met up with Maria for a drink.

Steve had gotten into his and Clint’s room to grab his gym bag and head to the Treehouse. He’d told Phil that Clint was zonked out, Hawkeye clutched fiercely to his chest and tear stains on the pillowcase. Phil knew he needed to talk to him, but there needed to be some cool-off time before they did. Something really deep was going on and Phil needed to get a second opinion before trying to tackle the issue.

So Maria pulled out a beer from a six-pack and passed it to him along with a bottle opener. She shrunk back into the heat of her winter jacket and watched clouds gather over the moon from the front steps of Phil’s house. They would be inside but Phil was cautious about alcohol in the house. Too many of the boys had issues associated with it for him to comfortably keep it in the house much less drink it in front of them. This was the first beer he’d had in a long time.

Today was a day for strange behaviors apparently.

“So what’s the scoop?” Maria asked taking a swig of her own beer with a slight grimace. She was more of a wine person.

“He’s gone,” Phil replied, staring at his still full bottle. He took a sip, hated the burn in his throat, mild as it was.

“Who’s gone?”

“My baby boy.” He turned to his friend, sad smile on his face. “He slammed his door on my face today. Clint’s officially a teenager.”

“Is that why we’re drinking?” She took a gulp. Phil stared at his bottle.

“No, we’re drinking because of why he slammed his door.” A sip, a frown. “Fury called me into his office today to tell me that Clint had been found with this hand on the fire alarm.”

“Clint?”

“That was my reaction. And then when I asked him what he was thinking, why he was doing it, he shrugged and then we argued and then… door.”

“Argued about what exactly?” She was a counselor at heart. She knew the questions to ask.

“He said I care more about my job, about the kids at my job, than I do him.” Another sip, a deeper frown. “I don’t even know where to begin on telling him that’s not true.”

“I’d say with that sentence.”

Phil’s beer was limp in his hands.

Maria shook her head. “Phil, I’m not the person you need to be talking to. Your son is.”

He looked away, shoulders sagging just enough for her to notice.

“You’re worried,” she observed.

“What did I miss, Maria?” His eyes were shining in the yellow porch light. “How did I…where?...What did I miss? Is he right? Is Clint right? Am I not around enough?”

“Phil.”

He jumped up, faced her. “My son almost committed a felony today, Maria. And when I tried to understand where he was coming from he ran away, shut me out.”

“Of course he did! He’s thirteen.” She took another long swig of her beer. “Remind me again how many teens are living in your house.”

“It’s not the same. They came to me as teenagers. But Clint-”

“Is growing up.” She finished off her beer and took Phil’s from his hand, draining the neck before speaking again. “You knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Clint’s a domestic abuse case. He was tormented by his father, abandoned by his brother, used by his friend, and almost killed by his peers. He’s going to have issues, Phil. They’re not going to magically go away. Just like yours aren’t.”

He shot her a glare but it didn’t have much hostility in it. She was right; he had his own rocks on the shore. He still woke up sometimes smelling Audrey’s shampoo, hearing Jude’s laugh. Sometimes he’d see the boys all playing a game together and want to take a picture to show his wife when she got home. But she was never coming home and neither was Jude. In a way he was an orphan just as Clint once was. As Bruce and Tony and Steve are.

“Those boys need you, Phil,” Maria went on. “And you need them. So what? Clint misbehaved.”

“Potential felony is misbehaving?”

“Have you actually asked him if he was really going to pull it?”

“What else was he gonna do?”

She shrugged. “Won’t know until you ask him.”

Phil sighed deeply, ran a hand through his hair. “I know. I need to talk to him.”

“Yes, you do. But it’s okay if he doesn’t immediately talk back; remember that. He might not know what to say either.” She took another swig of beer, still wishing for wine. “Let him know you care, Phil. That’s the best you can do.”

He watched his breath cloud up and float into the sky, dissipating, disappearing as it went.

After Maria had left – taking the six-pack with her – Phil went upstairs and knocked on the still closed door. While he was waiting for a reply, Tony walked by, wrench in hand and some grease on his cheek. Phil wanted to ask but decided to take one disaster at a time.

“If you’re asking him if he wants to build a snowman,” Tony began, “you’re going to have to sing it pretty loud. He’s got his aids out.”

Phil thanked Tony, watching him descend the stairs, no doubt going to the workshop. He made a mental note to check in on him before he went to bed.

Phil turned the knob and cracked open the door, peeking his head in. Clint was curled up on his bed, facing the wall, Hawkeye still clutched in his arms. Thirteen and still had that stuffed bird. Maybe there was hope after all.

Phil walked into the room and sat on the end of Clint’s bed waiting for him to turn so they could see each other to sign.

Clint’s eyes finally, begrudgingly, reached Phil’s.

 _Hi,_ Phil greeted.

 _Hi,_ Clint signed back. There was no smile to accompany it though.

Phil took a deep breath. _I wanted to know if you were actually going to pull the alarm._

Clint looked confused.

 _No one asked you,_ Phil clarified.

Clint sat up so he could sign better. Hawkeye stayed in his lap. _What happens if I say yes?_

_Then we’ll talk about why you wanted to pull it._

_And if I say no?_

_Then we’ll talk about why you had your hand there._

Clint frowned and pulled a fuzzy out of Hawkeye’s fake down. _What if I don’t want to talk?_

_We don’t have to tonight. But I would like to sometime soon. Okay?_

Clint nodded. He kept his hands still and his head down. Phil took the hint and stood up to leave. But Clint stopped him by calling his name, getting the man to turn around again.

_Did you ever do something stupid for Audrey?_

_Like what?_

_I don’t know. Just something stupid. Like to impress her or something._

Phil sat back down on the bed, tucking a leg up under him so he could face Clint easier. _Is that what this is about? A girl?_

Clint shrugged.

Phil couldn’t help the small grin on his face. Was that what he’d missed? Did Clint have a crush on some…no, not just _some_ girl. _It’s not Natasha, is it?_ Phil asked.

Clint didn’t really move to give any indication one way or the other. But Phil had a hunch and it made sense. He didn’t want to push it, though, so he nodded and said, _Yes. I did something stupid._

_What was it?_

_I borrowed my dad’s best tie without asking. And while on the date I managed to spill wine on it and in the process of reaching for a napkin I caught it on fire from the candle in the candle-lit dinner I’d prepared._   

Clint grinned at that but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. With a sigh he clung to Hawkeye tighter and mumbled, “I did it to get her to notice me.”

That threw Phil for a loop. If this was about Natasha, what did he mean by notice him? They were best friends. Then again, Nat hadn’t been around lately. Clint hadn’t talked about her…

One disaster at a time.

_You don’t need to go to jail to impress anyone._

_I wasn’t really going to pull it._ But then a shrug. _At least I thought I wasn’t. I just… She was right there and finally talking to me for the first time in months, even if it was basically yelling._

Phil was getting all kinds of red flags from that. _Clint?_

_I just wanted her to talk to me, Phil. And even if she hadn’t shown up, somebody else would’ve, right? And…_

_Clint,_ Phil tried again. _What’s this all about?_

His small shoulders sank. _I miss you, Phil. I miss you and Nat and I miss my brother and Trick and…_ There were tears in his eyes again.

Phil reached out and carefully put his arm around Clint. He didn’t shrug it off, but didn’t lean in either. Phil just clung a little tighter before letting go to sign. _How about we take this weekend, just the two of us, and do something-_

 _No,_ Clint shook his head. _That’s just a candy bar, Phil._

_A what?_

_A candy bar. Something small and sweet to smooth things over and keep me quiet._

Phil narrowed his brows in confusion, not from the explanation, but from its existence. It wouldn’t be until much later that he remembered how Trick would bring Clint back a candy bar for being their lookout.

Phil took in a deep breath, frown etched onto his features. He’d found a lot of little knots to work on in this talk and it was too late and they were both too tired to really get into them tonight. So he ended with, _Tell me what you would like me to do._

Clint shrugged again. _Can I think on it?_

 _Of course._ Phil reached out and ran a hand over Clint’s hair. It was longer, kind of shaggy. When was the last time he’d gotten it cut? _I love you, Clint. Please know that._

Clint nodded but it seemed a little dismissive. Phil would take what he could get.

He didn’t sleep well that night. He kept having dreams with alarms going off in his head. He’d find it odd a few days later when the alarm in his head matched the one blaring in real life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no!!! Drama! 
> 
> BTW everything I found does state that, yes, pulling the fire alarm is illegal. Best summary was from an article from Texas: "The school district police chief said that while pulling a fire alarm in a non-emergency is a class 'A' misdemeanor, doing so in a school elevates the charge to a state jail felony." Just it case you wanted to know...
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and Kudos-ing. I hope you continue to stick around. :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for not posting yesterday. I was super sick and just sort of lost 24 hours in there. I hope the drama of this scene makes up for it...

**Scene 15**

 

Clint was in the first graders’ room, signing another Clifford story to Katie when she told him she had to go to the bathroom and asked the teacher for a hall pass. Clint flipped through the pages of the book on Katie’s desk absently as he waited for her to come back. His mind circled to the conversation he’d had with Phil a few days ago. There was so much more he’d wanted to say, but didn’t know how. How could he explain that he’d let Loki talk him into doing something so epically stupid to impress Natasha who was avoiding him for some reason? And then how he’d wanted to pull the alarm because it _had_ worked in its own bizarre way. She’d talked to him. How could he tell Phil any of that? It was weak sounding, really dumb. And on top of it he’d have to get into how crushingly lonely he’d felt lately. Everyone had disappeared. And Nat… God, what the hell was she up to? And then there was the chance that she was getting hurt, that someone was hurting her. He needed to talk to her again.

His mind went back to the alarm. It had worked last time. Maybe…

No. It was _illegal_. And no matter how badly he wanted to talk to Natasha, to help her, he wouldn’t be able to behind bars.

It hit him then that he could’ve ended up in Juvie. It made his gut twist, the idea of being in the same hellhole as his brother. Barney had made his choices. Clint didn’t want his to reflect them, to be similar enough that they’d share that fate. His mind turned to red hair and again he thought of that night almost a month ago in the mall. Was Barney out? Did he do his time and get out? He’d be seventeen; didn’t Juvie go until eighteen?

Red hair. He couldn’t get it out of his mind.

A sound, a blaring sound slammed into him forcing him to close his eyes as it tore through his hearing aids. It persisted, angry and so _loud_. It took a minute for it to register as the fire alarm.

Teachers were shouting orders at panicking first graders, telling them to line up, to hold onto their seventh grader reading buddies’ hands. But Clint didn’t catch any of that. He turned off his aids to keep out the sound and fell in line with the mass swarming from the room. His sharp eyes darted around the hallway. A flicker. And yes, that was smoke he was smelling.

This wasn’t a drill.

They rounded the corner of a hallway and met up with the throng of other students, pushing for the door while teachers scrambled madly to tell them to stay in line, in order.

It was surreal. Less than a week ago he’d had his hand on the little red box that would’ve made this sound. Now it was real.

He watched a classmate tug on the hand of his first grader and it clicked in his mind. Katie.

He darted back, pushing upstream against bodies. He was sure they were yelling at him, telling him to get back in line, but his aids were off and his mind was set. He skidded to a stop in front of the girl’s bathroom door. A glance to his left showed tendrils of thick smoke beginning to make their way down the hall. He let out a breath and hollered, “Katie?”

He shoved open the door. “Katie!”

He saw her in the corner. She looked like she was telling him something, but he couldn’t hear her. He grabbed her hand and pulled her along, ignoring the rise in temperature he felt in the air around him. The smoke had increased and he could feel it snaking down into his lungs. There was a large window at the end of the hall, closer than the door. It was an old one that swung out leaving room at the bottom to escape. Clint saw it as their best option.

His peripheral vision caught sight of black smoke filling the other end of the hall. He screamed over the alarm at Katie to get down, to keep her below the rising smoke.

Clint shoved on the window, but rust and time had it sealed tight. He shoved again, harder. He had to cough and once he started it didn’t stop. The window didn’t move. He swore, his voice lost in the smoke and alarm. He could see sirens flashing from the fire trucks outside the window. Maybe they would find them.

He coughed some more.

Katie kept her gaze locked on the end of the hallway. It was starting to glow with the oncoming blaze. Clint didn’t know if they could hold out.

He slammed all his weight into the window. It budged just slightly. He tried again; it moved another half inch. His coughing increased. His eyes were beginning to burn.

He saw red and dismissed it as flame until it was right beside him. He couldn’t talk couldn’t say her name, but she was there. She held up her hand, counted down with her fingers and he understood. On the count of three they shoved together on the window. It moved an inch. They did it again, and this time it was free of its rusted bonds.

Nat slipped out first, reaching up to catch Katie as Clint passed her through the window. He followed, taking Katie’s hand and looking for the rest of his class. He located them and made his way over, Katie in tow behind him and Natasha after her. She had soot on her face and Clint was a second away from asking her what the hell she’d been doing in the building, but then Katie’s teacher was running up to them, babbling things he wasn’t hearing as she took Katie into her arms and directed the three of them to an ambulance.

An oxygen mask went over his face so quickly he resisted on instinct. But the paramedic kept it on him and the feeling of cool fresh air entering his lungs was a godsend. He wasn’t aware how badly his lungs had burned from the smoke inhalation. Natasha was next to him and getting her attention he signed, _What were you doing?_

 _Could ask you the same thing,_ she retorted.

He wasn’t going to let her off easy. _I went back for Katie._

Nat nodded but didn’t offer an answer and that pissed Clint off. He was about to ask her when the paramedics came back by, a body on a stretcher between them.

Clint’s eyes went wide as his mind pieced together who was on that stretcher. He jumped down from his place at the back of the ambulance and ran towards the team wheeling the man to another ambulance.

“Phil!” he shouted, shoving aside the arms that tried to stop him. They were successful the second time though, and kept him from reaching the team of paramedics. His wild eyes looked up to see Fury keeping him back and his mouth moving in words Clint was missing. He slipped a hand free to turn a hearing aid back on and the wall of sound that hit him was damn near overwhelming: sirens, alarms, yells, chatter, environment noise, hissing and popping from the flames that were now visible through the roof of the school. Over the massive well of noise he picked out Fury’s voice telling him that Phil was going to be okay, that they were taking him to the hospital.

“Let me go with him,” Clint begged, straining in Fury’s hold. Fury kept a hand tight on Clint’s as he led him over to the team and explained that Clint was Phil’s son. Clint tuned most of it out as his eyes searched over Phil’s body. There was blood, that’s all he saw. Just red, red, red blood on white sheets over the stretcher. Phil had an oxygen mask on his face and the skin on his hands was red and swollen. His leg had a splint.

Clint was only vaguely aware of the hand guiding him into the ambulance and once inside the doors shut and the vehicle blared away. A tech seemed to be assigned to Clint, checking him out, which told Clint he probably wasn’t breathing all that well. Had Fury mentioned something about his seizures? Did they think he was going into some kind of fit?

Questions. He was being asked questions. Why couldn’t he focus enough to answer them? He tasted salt. Was he crying? Or was that sweat on his upper lip?

Name? He caught that word. They wanted his name. He signed it out of habit. The tech asked if he could talk while he signed. Clint was vaguely aware of nodding, like only half of his brain was on the interrogation. The other was too busy trying to see around the tech to find out what was happening to Phil.

Name. He was being asked again.

“Clint,” he answered on autopilot, still trying to understand what was wrong with Phil.

“How old are you, Clint?” the tech asked as she addressed a bit of smudged soot on his forehead. Where had that even come from?

“Twelve. No, thirteen.” Why was it so hard to remember his age all of the sudden? And what were they doing to Phil?

The ambulance stopped and the paramedics leapt into action. Phil was out of the ambulance and into the hospital before the whole of Clint’s mind could comprehend it. He dashed after the team, calling out Phil’s name until a nurse stopped him and told him he couldn’t follow them into surgery. It felt like betrayal. No. He _had_ to be there.

He resisted her strong arms, did his best to break free. He’d been doing that so much lately. But his lungs and throat hurt from coughing and that jump from the base of the window to the ground seemed to finally catch up making his back and knees ache. But he needed to be there, to be with Phil. He fought her and she fought back, taking the upper hand when his legs seemed to give out. Now he was certain there were tears on his face.

He was only distantly aware that he’d been screaming. “Let me go! He’s my dad! He’s my dad! Dad!”

The nurse pulled him away from the set of swinging doors Phil and the medics had long since disappeared into. She sat him down like he was a child and he didn’t even care. She handed him some tissues and told him it would be okay.

He felt so exhausted then. The chair seemed to swallow him up.

Time was meaningless. It could’ve been minutes or hours but eventually Steve showed up with Tony and Bruce behind him. Clint was suddenly wrapped tightly in Steve’s arms, face pressed into Steve’s chest.

He was much calmer now and another nurse told him to follow her to an exam room where he was looked over one more time. She gave him some more oxygen after checking his throat. She said he’d be okay and let him return to where Steve, Tony, and Bruce were waiting. Thor had shown up now too.

Steve looked grave as he took Clint back into his arms. Tony was antsy, walking around the waiting room, picking up things and then immediately rubbing Germ-X on his hands. Bruce sat there with his eyes closed, wrestling with his breathing. Clint could sense his foster brother on the verge of an attack and prayed he kept his anger under control.

They were waiting for news. And it felt like an eternity before they finally received any.

“Coulson,” a voice called out, snapping all five boy’s attention towards the nurse that had said the name. They crossed the waiting room to stand in front of her.

“Is he okay?” Steve asked nervously. He had a hand on Clint’s shoulder that the younger boy wanted to brush off. He didn’t need Steve to play dad, because his real one was fine, had to be. They’d all said he was. Right?

“He’s out of surgery and resting. You can come back tomorrow to see him during visiting hours.”

“Tomorrow!” Clint interjected.

The nurse seemed unaffected. “He’ll probably still be asleep even then. You’re not missing anyth-“

“He’s my dad,” Clint pleaded.

The nurse frowned. Policy said family could stay after visiting hours but as she’d told these kids, they weren’t missing anything. They needed to be home and resting too. But the boy’s eyes were wide, begging She compromised. “You can see him, but then you should go home. Come back tomorrow morning.”

Steve nodded and the little troop set off to the recovery room Phil was in. It was dim, sterile, echoey with the sound of the nurse’s sneakers and repetitive heart monitor. The nurse had been right; Phil was asleep, probably with the aid of serious painkillers. The nurse explained that he’d broken his leg and had second-degree burns on his hands and forearms. They’d had to remove glass shards from his back and neck. “Something probably crashed a window and fell on him,” she explained. “We’ll know more tomorrow when he wakes up.” She left to give them a moment.

Clint sat down on the edge of the bed and took Phil’s hand in his, careful of the tubes inserted in it. He had bandages over the burns that were a little damp to the touch. He could see a gauze bandage peeking out at the base of Phil’s neck, probably from where they’d removed a glass shard. Clint swallowed hard, hating how raw his throat felt, like he’d eaten Velcro. “It’s okay, Phil,” he whispered. “It’ll be okay.”

He was suddenly struck with the reversal of the setting. How many times had Phil sat on the edge of Clint’s hospital bed and waited for him to wake up? He understood now the relief that always played over Phil’s features. Clint wanted nothing more than to see his eyes open.

Steve was behind him and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Clint didn’t want to leave, he wanted to stay here with Phil, wait for him to wake up and be here just like all the times Phil had for him. But his eyes were drooping and his throat hurt and he felt tears starting to well in his eyes again.

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Steve stated evenly.

Clint looked back as they left the room, memorizing the image in time to the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

He smelled like smoke and didn’t realize it until he was piled into the backseat of Steve’s car next to Bruce. Thor followed them in his own car back to the house, no doubt planning to stay there for the night. Clint took a shower to get the smell off of him and the feeling of the hospital. Bruce met him in his room with a mug of hot water and lemon. “For your throat,” he explained.

Steve filtered in after taking his own shower. He was still running a towel through his hair as he said, “There’s uh… you don’t have school tomorrow. Fury’s gonna meet with some other principals and see if the students can be doled out to other elementary schools.”

Clint nodded, taking a sip of the mixture in the mug.

Bruce cleared his throat. “We got called into the office and told that the elementary school caught fire and Phil had been hurt.” He added with a shrug, “In case you were wondering.”

He hadn’t really been wondering, but it was nice to know.

Steve hung his towel over his bedpost. He’d put it in the bathroom later. “Someone said you went back to get a little girl who’d been left behind?”

Clint nodded once and took another sip. “Katie’s my reading buddy. She’s a first grader and was in the bathroom when the alarm went off. I didn’t see her so I went back to check. I think she’d gotten scared and didn’t know what to do because I found her in the corner of the bathroom all curled up.” He didn’t say anything about Natasha coming to help them. He needed to know why she hadn’t evacuated before he said anything. He didn’t want her to get in trouble.

“You know you’re supposed to clear out and let the firemen do that kind of thing,” Steve reminded, a note of scolding in his tone.

Clint just shrugged. “I knew where she was. I got her out.”

“Yeah, but Clint what if you’d gotten trapped in there too?”

“I didn’t.”

“But if you had!” Steve shook his head. “What’s going on, Clint?”

“What do you mean?” His interest was suddenly all on the mug in his hands.

“Lately you’ve been doing some really reckless stuff. The fire alarm stunt, running in to the fire to-“

“To save a little girl.” He glared at Steve. “Tell me you wouldn’t have done the same.”

Steve’s mouth shut and stayed shut. As much as he wanted to argue, to point out that Clint couldn’t do stuff like this, the younger boy had a point. Steve definitely would’ve gone back to save anyone he could’ve.

Steve shifted, picked up his towel and started for the door. “Just tone it down, okay?” he tossed back. “Phil doesn’t need a heart attack.” It was meant as a joke but none of them felt it. Steve vanished to the bathroom and Bruce said he was going to check on Tony in the workshop. He’d been down there since the minute they’d gotten home, no doubt doing anything to keep his mind off of Phil lying in a hospital bed.

Clint lay down and stared up at the ceiling. It was burning in his mind, red-hot flames licking at the drywall. He didn’t realize his breathing was out of whack until he felt Steve’s hand on his arm.

 _You okay?_ he signed.

Clint nodded, rolled over and closed his eyes. He barely slept at all, his mind combining images of fire and red hair and Katie’s scared eyes, of Phil all bandaged up and strapped to machines, of Natasha fading away into the smoke.

He woke up to a coughing fit that had Steve instantly back into caretaker mode. He wanted to shove his foster brother off, to just get him the hell away, to stop smothering. But at three in the morning he didn’t have the strength and some part of his mind understood that that was Steve’s reaction to all this. He _needed_ to go into father mode just as Tony needed to tinker, as Bruce needed to meditate. Thor made breakfast the next morning, pancakes, and a whole bunch of them. Too many really. But Clint guessed that was his reaction, his way of coping. Bruce made more hot lemon water for Clint’s throat even though it didn’t feel as bad as last night.

Steve drove them all to the hospital and there they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Around noon Phil Coulson finally opened his eyes.

Clint hugged him as tight as he could and with what little strength Phil had he hugged him back. It made their fight and its rocky resolution seem like a bad dream. Here, now, that was all that mattered. Phil was so relieved to see his son was okay, that all the boys were okay. And as Clint pulled back and didn’t let go, Phil knew he’d never really lost his little boy. Just let him wander a bit before coming back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again. I'm not a medical professional in any regard. Any treatment is based off basically what I've seen on TV and shit.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for language and bullying.

**Scene 16**

Clint had had his hand on the alarm on Monday. The fire had been Thursday.

Phil had come home Sunday, was on crutches and pain meds. But he seemed…happier, lighter, really. It was strange, but true. It might have just been the medication, though.

When he’d woken up, Phil had explained that he’d been in the part of the school that had caught fire (the fire investigator claimed shoddy wiring had been the cause) and after clearing out any students, he’d gotten caught behind the blaze. A part of the ceiling had fallen down, taking some ductwork with it, the angle of fall causing the metal structure to break an office window. Phil’s leg had gotten trapped under the other end of the duct and his hands had gotten burned where he’d tried to lift it up to move it.    

Plans to salvage what they could and rebuild the school were already underway. But it was unlikely spring term would be in SHIELD elementary. So on the coming Monday the students in grades K through five would go to the local community center and have classes in some of the empty meeting rooms and the gym. Students in grades six through eight would go to the other local middle school, which unlike SHIELD was attached to the high school.

Clint had never been a fan of Alexander Pierce Secondary School nor its students. They were a rival school of SHIELD’s, beat them out in almost all sporting events. They were also a private school, ran far more militant than most. It was easy to tell the SHIELD kids from the Pierce ones. The latter all had buzz cuts. Clint debated about getting one to better hide under the radar, but with December just around the corner, he preferred having hair for warmth. And also because the last buzz cut he’d had had been because his father had made both him and Barney get one. Something about cutting down on lice but neither of them had that. Barney had told him later it was because it was easier to get blood off of skin than out of hair. Clint didn’t know if that was true, but didn’t necessarily doubt it.

The kid behind him in history shot spit balls at the back of his head, getting them stuck in his hair, and he’d already taken heat for his hearing aids before the end of homeroom on the first day.

His hearing aids were also the reason that for study hall during the last thirty minutes of school, Clint went to a separate classroom with other “special” students. He’d settled in the back next to a kid named Matt who was blind and another named Wade who was just weird.

“Can I ask you something?” Wade had wondered the moment Clint had been introduced.

Clint had shrugged.

“How can a deaf guy tell the difference between a scream and yawn?”

“Knock it off, Wade,” Matt had defended before sticking out his hand in Clint’s general direction. “Matt Murdoch. Welcome to Hydra.”

Clint had shaken his hand but pulled in his brows at the second statement. “Hydra?”

Matt shrugged. “It’s our mascot. But most people use it instead of ‘Pierce Secondary School. Too long or something.” He tilted his head to the boy sitting on the other side of Clint. “The nut case next to you is Wade Wilson.”

“Pleasure to meet you, final component,” Wade had said while grabbing Clint’s hand away from Matt’s and pumping it fiercely.

“Final what?” Clint had wondered.

“The missing piece. We’ve always been short one.” Wade’d paused then clarified with a sigh, indicating first Matt then Clint, “Blind, Deaf, and,” he shoved his thumbs to his chest, “Dumb.”

“You’re not dumb, Wade,” Matt had mumbled, going back to his homework, a Braille reading assignment. “Just a little out there.”

“’Little out there’? Now I feel insulted. I’m fucking nuts, Murdoch. Off my rocker, one link short of a chain, knitting with only one needle.”

“A crazy person doesn’t know they are crazy.”

“Maybe I’m just a special kind of crazy.” He had looked at Clint and grinned wildly. Without warning, Wade had jerked up his shirt and was leaning in to whisper, “Wanna touch my skin condition?”

Clint had repelled with a remark of disgust that had Matt questioning what had happened.

“Just be glad you’re blind, Matt,” Clint had replied. Both boys grinned and for the first time in a long time Clint had felt like he’d gotten something right.    

But the real silver lining to being at Pierce Secondary School, though, was that Natasha was in two of his classes. She wasn’t talking to him, was barely even looking at him. But Clint would take what he could get. He passed her a note in science that asked why she’d been in the school during the fire. She didn’t reply back.

He tried several times after that, verbally once it became obvious written communication wasn’t working. Finally he steeled himself and approached her at her locker – a shared one with a Pierce student.

He put his hand on the locker door and leaned against it so that he effectively barricaded it.

“Tell me,” he ordered, not needing to clarify.

Natasha ignored him.

“Tasha, I won’t let you into this locker until you tell me.”

She rolled her eyes and began to walk away. He followed her.

“Tasha, please! You could’ve been hurt or worse, killed. Hell, I could’ve been. But you saved me and I wanna know why you were there to do that.”

She stopped suddenly and turned around to face him, features hard and unreadable. “If I tell you will you leave me the hell alone?” She hated the slight wince her words caused him.

He nodded without meeting her eyes.

“I was looking for evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“To make sure the fire was an accident.”

Clint opened his mouth to answer when a voice rang out in the hallway. “Hey, Nat, you ready to ditch this place for some real fun?”

The voice belonged to a dark haired boy, probably about Steve’s age, maybe older. He had a group with him: a long haired guy with so many fillings his teeth looked metal as he chomped on a toothpick, another long haired kid but with it pulled back into a messy bun and a prosthetic left arm, and the last one Clint vaguely recognized as Emil Blonsky – the kid Bruce put in the hospital.

Nat threw them a forced smile. “Uh, sure thing, Brock.” She side-stepped Clint and got a few steps away before Brock Rumlow shook his head.

“Uh, uh, Nat. You gotta introduce us to your little friend here first.”

She did her best to ignore the panic bubbling up in her chest. No, no they couldn’t find out about him. Oh, god, if they… “He’s just-”

“I’m Clint,” he announced, coming to stand beside Nat.

Natasha had never wanted to strangle him more. He had no idea what they could do to him, _would_ do to him.

Rumlow grinned wickedly. “You a friend of Nat’s?”

“I-”

“He’s just a classmate. We had tutoring together,” Natasha interjected. She took a step closer to the group of boys.

Clint’s eyes were begging Natasha for some explanation as to why she was renouncing their friendship, why she was pushing him away.

Rumlow laughed as he caught Clint’s imploring expression. He leaned in, dropping his voice. “Let me explain this to you, runt. She doesn’t like you. End of story. So forget about whatever little crush you got and get the fuck out of here.”

Clint stared at Natasha, gaze beseeching her to deny it, to laugh this off as a joke, to do something other than stand there unmoving. She was his best friend, his partner to face the unfair world together with.

No.

No, it was clear she wasn’t any of that.

Clint hated the stinging in his eyes as he turned away from the group, away from Natasha, and stalked down the hall, head up, tears at bay. She wanted to turn her back on him. He could do the same to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, trouble is a-brewing. But Matt and Wade cameos! Right? 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and Kudos-ing. I'll try to post on time next week.


	17. Chapter 17

 

**Scene 17**

Steve was in the parking lot of Pierce Secondary School with Peggy waiting for Clint to come out. He’d volunteered to pick up his foster brother since Phil was out with his broken leg. He hated how he’d once complained about doing this. Now it seemed so small in comparison to what had happened a few weeks ago. Phil had almost died. Clint had been in danger. That stupid fire could’ve taken them both. And Steve was not prepared to lose anyone else in his life. Not after his dad and his mom and-

“Bucky?”

Peggy stopped her story about Angie’s terrible customer at the local diner and tried to follow Steve’s gaze out the window. She’d never seen him like that, wide-eyed and mouth agape, something terribly old and heavy woven into his features. “Steve?” she tried.

But in a flash of a second Steve was out of the car and running through the parking lot to some unseen goal. Peggy unbuckled and opened her own door, leaning on it as she watched her boyfriend take off like a bullet.

Steve pushed around other high schoolers, ducked between groups of middle school girls discussing boy bands, and almost tripped over a loose brick in the small courtyard at the front of the school. But he’d seen him. He’d _seen_ Bucky. He was sure.

He trained his eyes on his friend’s form, on the back of his head. He gathered up the air to yell Bucky’s name, when a large group of students exited the school through a side exit Steve would later piece together as the gym, further explaining why they were all dressed in workout clothing.

He stopped running and looked around. But Bucky had disappeared, swallowed up into the sea of bodies.

Steve shook his head. No. NO! Bucky had to be here. He had to. Steve had _seen_ him. “Bucky!” he shouted. He ignored the stares from other students and kept wildly trying to locate his once best friend. “Bucky!” he tried again.

Something caught his eye. A flash. And yes, there he was. It had to be. Steve took off after the relocated form, yelling Bucky’s name over and over.

He was a few feet from him when Bucky turned around.

Steve stopped dead in his tracks.

The look in Bucky’s eyes was something cold, dark, and unfamiliar. Steve’s gaze wandered to the flash of light he’d detected and found Bucky’s left arm to be encased in metal. No, it _was_ metal. What had happened to Bucky’s arm?

“Bucky?” Steve barely breathed.

The figure before him, the one that should’ve been his best friend continued to glare at him, face featureless, eyes void. With a voice low and threatening he spat, “Don’t call me that,” and turned away.

Steve felt everything he knew shatter. And the pieces scattered with each step James took away from him.

…

“Thanks a lot, jerk!” Bruce yelled at Tony as he tossed the young man’s tie into his foster brother’s face. “I’m pretty sure I’ll never even see Betty ever again!”

“Whoa, calm down, big guy,” Tony cautioned, pulling the tie off his face. He folded it neatly because such fancy satin should not be treated like a cheap knock off. “Take a breath before you trigger yourself. Okay? Now what happened?”

“Oh like you don’t know.”

“I don’t,” Tony admitted flatly.

“You set me up! This is all your doing!” Bruce tossed a glass beaker from its place on the workbench in the basement lab. It shattered on the ground and it was like the action called to Bruce, pulled him from his rage. Too many things had been broken by his hand. He looked at Tony and pulled in a sharp breath at the look in his foster brother’s eyes. He looked tired, concerned, and even a little afraid. Bruce hated that. Of all the people in the world the last one he wanted afraid of him was Tony. The guy might be the most annoying person on the planet, but he’d done more to be Bruce’s friend than anyone before him.

So Bruce collapsed into a chair and propped an elbow up on the workbench, scrubbed at his jaw. He opened his mouth to explain when the basement door opened and Thor’s unmistakable footsteps rattled all the way down.

“Ah, Tony,” he began, tone clear but a little nervous. The hand rubbing at his neck added to that theory. “It would seem your volunteering evening encountered a problem.”

“Problem?” Tony asked, brow raised. He’d purposely sent Thor to do an item off Pepper’s list for him because he’d trusted the guy would be good with the elderly he was sure to encounter at the nursing home. “Problem” was not supposed to be a word he was hearing tonight. But Bruce was pissed, Thor was nervous, and Tony was left wondering where his plan had failed.

Since none of them had successfully been on any dates with their intended love interests, Tony had suggested they help each other out. He’d slicked Bruce up in a suit, handed him a rose and told him how to sweep Betty off her feet. Meanwhile, Thor was instructed to do one of the items off the list Pepper had given Tony, and Bruce was to write a poem to Jane on behalf of an intelligent but maybe-scientifically-declined Thor. At the moment, the poem seemed to be the only thing that hadn’t ended in disaster. Well, Tony was predicting disaster with the way Bruce and Thor were behaving.

Thor cleared his throat. “I volunteered at the nursing home for you, and there was this delightful elderly woman named Betsy who asked me to hang up a framed picture her granddaughter had given her. So I took a hammer from a workman’s cart, figuring I’d just return it to him after I was done.” He paused, booming voice resting as he dipped his head. “I underestimated the integrity of the wall.”

“You knocked a hole through the wall of a nursing home,” Bruce assumed, a layer of sympathy for his friend. Thor nodded and Tony laughed. But the look Thor shot him had him shutting up lightning fast. “There’s more, isn’t there,” Tony guessed.  

Thor rubbed his neck again. “Security may have gotten involved since the drywall went through and landed on the gentleman in bed next door.” He let out a long breath that made him look much older than seventeen. “I am forbidden from ever returning. Well,” he hesitated, “actually it is you that is forbidden.”

“What!” Tony yelled.

“You told me that if they asked to use your name so it would appear you volunteered in their logs, should the fair Pepper check. I wished not to ruin the illusion nor be caught in a lie.”

Tony rolled his eyes and went back to his tinkering. “Looks like I’ll have to find another nursing home. And pray they don’t have intercommunications.” Plus how would he explain this one to Pep?

“A sky’s worth of apologies, Tony,” Thor said sincerely. Tony waved him off. But he turned next to Bruce and raised a brow for his foster brother to detail his disaster.

Bruce shook his head. “I acted like you. Turns out you’re an ass.”

“Betty called you that?”

“Not in so many words, but yes. So thanks a lot. I’ve lost the girl of my dreams because I followed your stupid advice.” It was bitter but not raging. At least Tony had managed to stem off an episode. But the despondency of his friend and lab buddy made him feel uneasy.  

“Well, at least the poem you wrote for Thor to Jane worked, right?” Tony asked Bruce who looked to Thor for confirmation.

Thor shrugged. “I believe it got lost in her notes. There’s no telling if she’ll ever see it.”

Bruce glared at Tony. “Stupid plan,” he muttered, going to pick at pieces of hardened glue on the workbench.

Tony watched Bruce turn away from him and felt something pinch in his chest. He blamed it on his heart condition, though he knew that wasn’t it.

It had been a perfect plan in theory. Tony would help Bruce get Betty, Bruce would help Thor get Jane, and Thor would help Tony get Pepper. So why had it gone so wrong?

Tony knew he should admit he’d messed up. But it hadn’t been all his fault! If Bruce had followed his advice- if Thor had – if he’d… Ah, who was he kidding it had been a stupid plan. And now Bruce was mad and Thor was standing awkwardly and he was scrambling for any kind of justification there was.

He opened his mouth to apologize when Phil called down that it was bed time. Like they were freaking five-year-olds. But Bruce and Thor seemed more than happy to leave the lab. Tony ignored them and went back to tinkering.

It was four in the morning before he found his way to bed. His eyes were almost shut, when he heard Bruce shift on his bed.

“Tony?” he asked sleepily.

“Hmm,” Tony answered from across the room.

“I know you tried, but-”

“Nah, you were right, Brucie. It was a stupid plan.”

And by the light of the streetlamps outside Tony caught the barest hint of a grin of Bruce’s lips. And Tony was once again amazed and so happy for the other boy’s easy forgiveness.

If only he could be that way with himself.  


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Bullying

**Scene 18**

Steve had once told Clint that he liked practicing batting with him because he was a left-handed pitcher. It made hitting the ball more challenging. Since the elementary school didn’t have a team, he’d told Clint that he should try out for the high school baseball team his freshman year because left-handers were pretty sought after, and with his developed aim and accuracy from archery, Clint would be a shoo-in.

So when Coach Garret at Pierce Secondary School announced they were doing their baseball unit in gym class, Clint got excited. This was his chance to prove he could do something, that he was _good_ at something. And maybe get the Hydra jerks off his ass, most noticeably Tony Masters.

Masters was an amazing athlete, with incredible endurance, speed, flexibility. He’d creamed everyone in the pervious basketball unit, able to make baskets from the opposite free-throw line like it was nothing. When asked about his training regiment, the boy just bounced a nonchalant shoulder and said he’d YouTubed it. He was already being scouted for colleges, seventh grader or not.

So on Clint’s first day of gym, when he’d sunk a basket much to his “losers only” team’s relief – Coach Garret had picked teams resulting in a jocks-to-non-jocks unbalance and a bias on Clint because of his hearing aids – Masters had decided the sandy blonde boy needed to be brought down a peg.

Masters would “accidentally” trip Clint during their warm-up run, or make only headshots during dodge ball. Clint was able to block most of the throws, but one or two had managed to get him in the forehead. He was grateful his shaggy bangs were able to cover the subsequent bruise. But his worry over if the injury would stir up a seizure had been harder to mask. He’d kept to his room, catching up on homework and sneaking outside to play with Lucky until the bruise was gone and Phil wouldn’t know about it.  

But baseball was something Clint could own. And he had every intention of doing so.

Hydra had a large indoor gym, with cages around the lights, and retractable bleachers, so indoor baseball could actually be a thing. On a level deep down, Clint was a little jealous. He wondered briefly if SHIELD would be able to renovate their gym after the fire to include space for an archery range or batting cage.

Coach Garret gave them their positions for the day; Clint was on first base. About halfway through class, he caught a grounder, tagged the base, then tossed it to Danny Rand over on third to make a double play. Coach Garret called out on both runners, one of whom was Masters. The glare he shot Clint belonged on the face of death.

Clint caught the next ball as a pop fly and the teams switched. He ignored Masters’ shoulder as it collided with his.

In the locker room after class, Masters snatched Clint’s T-shirt and held it above his head, far out of reach of the smaller boy. “Listen here, half pint,” Masters started, causing Clint to glare. What was with Hydra goons picking on his height?

Masters went on. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but let’s get something straight. I’m the best athlete here. And some retarded, deaf, pipsqueak isn’t going to take that from me. So you better fumble the next game. Or your life will become an absolute hell. Got it?”

  Clint folded his arms over his chest, distantly wishing he’d gotten his shirt on before this happened. “What if I don’t?” he challenged.

Masters smirked, flicked his eyes upwards to Clint’s shirt in his hand, and then tossed the clothing at the far wall of the attached bathroom, getting it to land in the bottom of a urinal.

“I’d think about that if I were you,” Masters finished, turning on his heel to leave the locker room.

Clint frowned as he started walking towards the row of urinals to retrieve his shirt. Maybe he could get it to dry out with the hand dryer on the wall? Wouldn’t do much for the smell…

A hand shot out to stop him in his tracks that belonged to Danny Rand. His friend Luke extended his arm, a light brown cut off hoodie in his hand. They didn’t say anything as Clint took the offered clothing, the thing swallowing him up as it was almost three times his size. But he didn’t complain. Danny and Luke left without a word, but Clint got their meaning. They were on his side.

…

Matt ran his fingers over the keys of the keyboard, checking to make sure the Librarian had put on the Braille cover. Every Friday in study hall they got to go to the school library and utilize the computers for homework. Most of the kids just played games, though, since their teacher was older than dirt and often fell asleep.

Wade slid in next to Matt. That, or somebody was packing a raw hamburger. He doubted that. He’d never asked why Wade smelled like uncooked meat. He wasn’t sure he’d like the answer if he ever could get a straight one out of the kid.

Matt heard Clint sit down next to Wade. He had a particular breathing pattern: a small whine when air entered his nose, most likely from a past nasal fracture. He also smelled a bit like dog and a gentle, skin-friendly laundry detergent. _Foster home,_ Matt remembered. _Probably someone with allergies._   

Clint let out a sigh and Matt heard the zipper of his backpack opening as the boy no doubt fished out his notes from English class, planning to get started on the paper they’d been assigned. Matt was doing the same, hence needing the Braille keyboard.

They’d discussed the assignment in class and the teacher had handed out a paper with the details and prompt on it. But she’d only typed it up, hadn’t given him an audio file of the paper being read, nor a Braille copy to read. He’d have to get one of the others to read it aloud to remind him of the assignment. He immediately wanted to ask Clint since Wade had a habit of not sticking to what the paper actually said. But Clint had trouble reading out loud and honestly could probably benefit from having the paper read so he could follow along. So he slid his copy to Wade next to him and warned the boy that Clint would know if he deviated. Clint told Matt Wade had stuck out his tongue in response.

But Wade read the paper flawlessly and within a minute or so, all three boys were searching away on Google for information to fulfill their prompt: Think of what you want to do when you graduate college. For Matt is was an easy search. He knew he wanted to be a lawyer. There was plenty of data on what he needed to become one. But he stayed tuned to the others. Wade was uncharacteristically quiet and Matt thought it best to ask Clint what the boy was doing.

Wade offered up the info himself. “Building a sculpture of a pig out of my ear wax.” A pause. Then, “Clint, let my see your hearing aids; I bet you gots lots of wax built up in those.”

Clint probably pushed the other boy away if his vocal tone was anything to go by. “No way! Use your own crap, Wade.”

There was an added edge to it that Matt picked up on. Maybe gym was getting to him. Danny and Luke had said the kid had gotten on Masters’ radar in a bad way. But Clint seemed to have that handled if Danny and Luke’s impressed reports were anything to go by. Matt guessed Clint knew a thing or two about handling bullies. But he kept some advice in mind in case things got out of hand. Masters wasn’t an easy blow off. The guy was tenacious, especially if it involved a coach’s attention. Lots of brawn, but not shabby on brains either. And that’s what made Masters dangerous.

As they turned back to their assignments, Matt noticed Clint’s groans of frustration increasing. Finally the sound of a slamming keyboard and a huff of exasperated air filled the room. Clint roughly grabbed his notes and shoved them in his backpack before storming out the room. They only had five minutes left of school anyway.

“What’s his problem?” Wade asked.

Matt shook his head. “Maybe just a bad day. Did he leave his computer on?”

“Yeah. Give me a sec.” Wade clicked around, checking Clint’s search history. “Well he looked up the military, the fire department, the police force – Oh my god! Clint as a cop! I could totes see it. No! Detective Barton. Oh, Barton, P.I.”

“Focus, Wade.”

“Killjoy.” He scrolled a little more until he came across the second half of the searches. “Oh.”

“What?”

“He looked up health requirements. Basically, all the things Clint wants to do require being able to hear.”

Matt frowned. He knew a little what that was like. Needing help, asking for assistance or for special consideration. How there were challenges, obstacles, and flat out things that you couldn’t do.

Wade closed out of the Internet browser and signed off of Clint’s account for him. He leaned over to Matt and ran his fingers over the special keyboard. “Bumpy.”

Matt shoved him aside. He packed up his own books and felt around for his cane. He sighed deeply and turned to Wade next to him. “Okay, burger boy, give it back.”

Wade rolled his eyes despite Matt not being able to see it. “Killjoy,” he repeated, handing back the cane. “Clint won’t give me his hearing aid wax and you take away my sculpting tool.”

“Please tell me you didn’t use this on your earwax pig.”

“I needed something to roll out the stuff.”

Matt wondered if he could get home without his cane. He felt Wade lean in. “If it makes you feel better,” he started, “I used the end that touches the ground.”

Matt again shoved Wade away and made a mental note to refresh the kid on boundaries. And on dignity. “C’mon,” he said, picking up his bag and using the cane to set his path. “I’ve got a bus to catch, and you’ve got a janitor to apologize to.”

…

Clint shoved his dinner around his plate with his fork while Tony went on about the inaccuracies in his science class’s textbook. Something about being written in the dark ages, and missing entire sections on the development of neutrinos. He wasn’t really paying attention. His mind was lost on the past week: baseball and his newest bully, the stupid English assignment and how he couldn’t do anything he wanted to.

He sighed as Bruce added a point about grade-level appropriateness and Tony blared on over the top of such logic.

And then there was Nat. Before she’d met James they’d been best friends, partners…and he’d admit he wanted it to be more some day in the future. But she’d met James and suddenly he was beneath her. And she’d turned up her nose and told those guys that he was just a classmate _._

Just. That’s all he was. _Just_ something.

Since when was he so flawed?

Since when was he not good enough?

Since when could he not _do_ anything?

Tony’s voice died down and Clint only recognized the end to the noise when Phil gently calling his name pulled him from his reverie. Clint looked up to see all his foster brothers and Thor who was over for dinner staring at him.

 _“You okay?”_ Phil signed from across the table. “ _You haven’t eaten very much.”_

Clint glanced at his mostly full plate and found that he’d stabbed his pork chop with his knife and still had a hand curled into a fist around the handle. He let go of the knife and sagged his shoulders before signing back that he was fine without ever meeting Phil’s eyes. “ _Not hungry,”_ Clint added before excusing himself from the table and heading outside into the backyard.

He’d set up a paper target on the back fence so he could practice archery on days when he couldn’t get to the Treehouse. The paper had too many holes in its center and dew had smeared the ink into a Rorschach blot. But it was something to aim for, a direction, and that’s all Clint was really looking for.

Lucky plopped down next to where Clint was standing, his brown eyes trained on the same spot as his owner’s. In the distance, snow clouds were threatening to shed their crystalline contents over the land.

On the third round of arrows, Phil limped out into the yard on his crutches and handed Clint a scarf. “ _It’s getting cold out here,”_ he explained after Clint had taken it. “ _Wouldn’t want you getting sick.”_

Clint shrugged but wrapped the scarf around his neck anyway. He drew and loosed an arrow. He had his next one nocked, but Phil stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “ _What’s going on?”_

Clint put the arrow back in his quiver and shrugged. But Phil was tired of that response so he tilted his head towards the house and said, “C’mon. I’ll make some cocoa.” He glanced at where Lucky was looking up at him and added, “And let’s let Lucky here warm up a bit too.”

Ten minutes later Clint was at the table with Lucky’s head lazily in his lap while he sipped cocoa and watched the little marshmallows bob up and down in the chocolaty mixture.

“I’m heading to the store with Steve later to pick up stuff for Thanksgiving dinner. You want to come with?”

Clint shook his head at Phil’s question. Phil frowned deeply. “Hey, bud,” he began, “What’s going on?”

Clint sighed and rubbed absently at Lucky’s blocky head. “School’s tough.”

Phil nodded. “Yeah, it is. And I bet it’s pretty tough being in there with all these new kids and having to adjust to a new schedule, a new school system.” He scooted a little closer, propping his broken leg up on the opposite chair. “But you’ve done new before. So what’s got this time being so tough?”

Clint shrugged.

“No, that doesn’t count, okay. I need words, Clint. Sign or say. No shrugging.”

Clint pushed on the top of a marshmallow, watching the brown drink stain the white. “I can’t do anything,” he mumbled.

“You can’t do anything?” Phil asked. “What do you mean?”

Clint went to shrug but then remembered Phil’s words and instead took a sip of hot chocolate. He really didn’t want to talk about this. But Phil put a hand on his forearm and Clint couldn’t help but be so damn grateful that the bandages covering it had been reduced and he could feel new sensitive skin on his own. Phil was there. Phil could make it better.

Clint stared intently at the mug as he confessed, “I can’t be a cop or firefighter or join the army or any of those things to help people because I’m deaf. I can’t do anything because I can’t hear!” He despised the tears that came to his eyes. Goddamn them! He didn’t need to cry again. He was such a crybaby. Barney had called him that, had told him so many times that only babies cry. And yet he couldn’t help it.  

And then there was Phil, wrapping him in warm arms and drawing him as close as he could with one leg stretched out in front. Phil who was alive after some stupid fire and was healing while still taking care of all of them, who put all their needs before his and just cared so damn much that it almost physically hurt to think that just a few weeks ago Clint was yelling that he didn’t care. He’d never been so glad to be wrong.    

After a moment, Phil pulled away just enough so he could look at Clint. His bandaged hands pulled on his sweater sleeve and scrubbed the teardrops from Clint’s face.

“Now,” Phil started, “I want you to listen to me.” He pulled back a little more and switched to sign. “ _You can do whatever the hell you want to do. Yes, you have limitations, and yes, they are going to out some things. But that doesn’t mean that you can’t help people. You have an enormous heart, Clint. And you are very, very brave. Maybe you can’t use those things to be something as bold as a firefighter or officer, but you can still use them. You can go into private security if you want. Or you can work at an animal shelter, rescue dogs like you did Lucky. You can, hell, join the Peace Corp and teach Deaf children around the world. You’ve already done so much, Clint. So don’t tell me you can’t do anything.”_

There was pure conviction in Phil’s eyes. He believed what he was saying with all his heart and Clint could see it.

Clint wrapped his arms tightly around Phil and the man pulled the boy close. He knew, understood, that it was tough. But Clint was tougher. And he’d do everything in his power to get his son to believe it.

Even if it took a couple reminders from time to time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While there are some waivers for people with hearing loss to work in these field, general consensus I found stated hearing as a requirement. 
> 
> Thanks again to everyone for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and Kudos-ing!! I treasure it!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ! PLEASE READ! PLEASE READ! 
> 
> Hi. So uh... yeah. Posting has been kind of sporadic these past few weeks. And I'm sad to announce that next week probably won't be any better because I have family coming in for Easter. So in apology and anticipation, I'm posting SIX chapters today. 
> 
> Also I'd like to apologize for not replying to comments on this story. Please do still keep that up as I do read them. However things have been positively manic for the past month and don't appear to be easing up any time soon. So I'm really, really terribly sorry if I don't get to respond to your comment. I'm not skipping you, or ignoring you in anyway. 
> 
> Next, chapter 18 has been UPDATED to include an additional scene. So don't forget to go back and read that. 
> 
> Lastly, I'm adding a WARNING for child abuse both present and past. So be careful if that's a trigger.

**Scene 19**

Wade Wilson was bored. He got that way a lot. They called it ADD or ADHD or something like that. He’d never really paid attention. Currently he was attempting to take some stupid quiz on one of those silly Scantron sheets with all the bubbles he was supposed to be filling in. But he’d gotten artistic inspiration and decided to make pictures with the bubbles, filling them in so that they formed the shape of a pair of crossed swords. They looked cool.

The teacher called time on the test and had everyone come and turn them in at her desk. The frown was nothing new when Wade turned in his paper. He returned to his seat unfazed. What did he care about the opinion of some bitchy old lady with a stick up her ass?

The class went on with the day’s lesson while Wade doodled penises in his notebook. After a minute he sighed his boredom and raised his hand to ask if he could go to the bathroom. The teacher was more than willing to get rid of him.

Wade walked the halls with his hands in his pockets, whistling the 20th Century Fox Fanfare theme. More than once a door shut as he walked by.

“Everyone’s a critic!” he yelled back at the closed entryway.

Deciding to expel some pent up energy, Wade wandered to the gym with the intention to crash whatever class was there. As he walked through the set of side doors on the east side, he spied Clint and grinned.

He liked the new kid, got a kick out of him. He was interesting – like with the whole archery thing. And he didn’t make it a point to mercilessly tease Wade like some of the other kids. Danny and Luke were in class too, and Wade bemoaned the fact that he wasn’t in this gym class. He could have fun with those guys.

They were doing their baseball unit. Wade had never been a big baseball fan, finding there were better alternative uses for a bat. He watched Masters come up to bat and size up Clint who was the pitcher. Clint leveled the ball, as he made a decision on which one to throw. He prepped, wound up, and let fly a gorgeous curve ball that had Masters striking out.

Wade let out a whoop from his self-imposed spot in the outfield. He got a few curious stares, but their attention went back to the game easily.

Wade pulled out his cell phone and cued up his SnapChat aiming to film Clint striking out Masters for his electronic audience.

The boy pitched a fast one, earning Masters a second strike. A feral grin spread across his face as he glared Clint down. Wade appreciated the level of theatricality and tension it brought to his vid. He captioned the footage “Sensual Archer God Plays Baseball” and sent it out to his viewers. He had quite a few subscribers with one – FireAndBalletShoes – watching every single one of his SnapChat stories. He liked the imagery of the subscriber’s name. He pictured himself in flaming pointe shoes with a machete.

Clint was lining up to pitch again so Wade readied his camera. It was a good pitch, but Masters was an equal match. He caught the ball square on the bat and sent it to outfield. Luke caught it and tossed it to the kid playing first base. He tagged the plate mere seconds before Masters’ foot did. Coach Garret blew his whistle and spread his arms, calling safe.

“What?” Clint asked in disbelief. “He’s out. Scott tagged the base-“

“You don’t get to question my call,” Garrett spat. “I’m the coach; I make the plays. So shut up and get back in place.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed.

 _Oh, this is gonna be good,_ Wade thought, starting a new video recording on his phone.

“But he’s out!” Clint argued. “I saw Scott tag the base-”

“Kid-”

“-before Masters got there. He’s out.”

“I’m not going to tell you again. Now get back into place.”

“Yeah, Clinton, back to the mound,” Masters added from his spot at first base.

Clint shot him a withering look. He turned back to Garrett getting nothing but his back. He tried again. “Scott tagged the base, Coach.”

“Zip it kid. Play’s been made.”

“But he’s-”

It was beyond quick, almost as if it hadn’t happened. But it had. Garrett’s hand had struck Clint’s cheek leaving a vague redness in its wake.

Something entered Clint’s eyes, something dark and scared.

 _Shit_ , Wade swore silently, tucking his phone in his pocket.

“Quit whining,” Garrett finished, checking his watch and blowing his whistle, getting the students’ attention. “We’ll pick this up tomorrow. Hit the showers, kids.”

The gym emptied. Masters shoved his shoulder into Clint as he ran past. Clint didn’t notice, didn’t even comprehend it. His hand was on his cheek, his mind much further in the past. He stood stock still, not moving, not breathing.

Wade approached him carefully, eyes scanning over his new friend. “Clint?” he asked cautiously.

“He okay?” a voice asked from behind him. Wade turned to see Luke Cage and Danny Rand had stayed in the gym. “You okay?” Luke tried again, more direct this time around.

Clint pulled in a shaky breath. His eyes were watering, lip quivering as he tried to keep it together, to keep the crushing memories down. “He hit me,” he whispered.

“Yeah, he did,” Danny answered. He turned to Wade and raised a brow. Wade shrugged. “Ever eat bad shrimp?” Wade asked. Danny and Luke turned to him, confusion radiating on their faces. “Not exactly an experience you want to do twice.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He hit me,” Clint breathed again, hand still on his cheek.

“Never been hit before?” Luke asked, trying to figure out what exactly was happening. Clint was so still, so pale.

Clint looked up at him, eyes _huge_ , fear shining in them.

It clicked then, for them, that the answer to Luke’s question was a definite no.

Luke turned to Wade. “What do we do?”

Wade threw up his hands. “Hell if I know.” A beat of thought. “Take him to the nurse?”

“What’s she going to do?” Danny inquired.

“What are _we_?” Luke countered.

Wade pointed at him as if to give him credit then turned away and began to exit out the gym door.

“Where are you going?” Danny called.

“Back to class.” He vanished.  

Danny turned back to Clint. He was shaking now. “You gonna be okay?” he tried once more.

Clint blinked but didn’t say anything.

“Maybe we should take him to the nurse,” Luke reasoned.

Danny nodded and reached out a hand to Clint’s arm but the boy snatched it back like Danny had bit him.

Danny shared a look with Luke. _No touching_ , they agreed. Danny ducked his head a little so he was directly in Clint’s sightline. “Clint?”

“He hit me,” the boy responded.

The bell rang, signaling the end of class. They had five minutes to get to their next one.

“Clint,” Danny began, “do you want to go to the nurse?”

He shook his head.

Well at least that was an answer.

“What class do you have next?” Luke asked.

Clint pulled in a scarily gasping breath. He didn’t answer for a long enough time that Luke checked the clock on the wall. They had three minutes.

“Clint?” Danny prompted.

“English.” It was a pale whisper, an answer from the only operating section of his mind.

“Do you think you can make it there?” Luke tried, checking the clock again. Two minutes. Damn it, he already had two truancies in Mr. Hyde’s science class.

Clint eventually nodded. But it looked as shaky as the rest of him. Danny and Luke shared another look. They wanted to help, but what could they do? They ducked into the lockers to grab their and Clint’s stuff, shoved it in his hands, and left the gym. They got him to the door and then had to part ways. They didn’t realize it would be the last time they saw him at school.

…

FireAndBalletShoes saw the icon on her phone light up indicating that there had been yet another update to WWDeadpool98’s SnapChat story. She cast a glance to her teacher, making sure the bore of a man had his back turned before she opened the notification.

Her heart stopped as her eyes witnessed a blonde boy get slapped in the face by an instructor.

Her eyes flitted up to the teacher. He was still facing the board.

She acted fast, hacking in and downloading and saving the post, pulling up an encrypting app for her phone number. She keyed in a familiar mobile phone number and attached the video she’d pulled from the server. She hit send just as the teacher turned around.

She pretended to take notes. Her hands were shaking too badly for them to be legible anyway.

…

Coulson got a text from an unknown number. He paused his movie and laundry folding, un-propped his leg, and narrowed his brows at it as he stared.

Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t go near strange numbers. He’d been too well trained by Tony for that. But something in his mind was screaming, something nagging him incessantly. So he tapped his un-bandaged thumb to the message to open it. Up came a video. It took him three viewings to finally come to terms with what it was.

His phone was at his ear in a heartbeat. “Maria,” he barked when she answered. “I need you to drive me to Pierce now!”

…

Clint felt like he was perpetually at the top of a roller coaster. He could feel the drop approaching, knew it was inevitable. But he never fell over the edge, just rode and rode with the anxiety of falling. His hands were shaking, his breathing erratic, his pulse hammering in his ears. He could hear yelling. A voice from the past haunting his thoughts, screaming, increasing louder and louder until the strike came. Silence followed. His head hurt and he wasn’t sure if that was part of the memory or reality.

It took far too long for him to realize the teacher was calling his name. She was at his desk, arm extended, piece of yellow paper in her hand.

He blinked at it. His mind finally registered it was a pass to the office. But why? Why was he going there?

He took it and floated out to the hallway. It seemed to grow just like the wooden stairs that led up to his and Barn’s room had every time Daddy came home yelling.

His head hurt.

His face stung.

The hallway suddenly ended. He was in the office and there was Phil on crutches, Maria Hill next to him.

What were they doing here? Something tightened in his chest as the idea that Maria was going to take him away slammed into him. Maria had brought him to Phil; now she was going to take him away.

He wanted to scream. He felt like he was falling backwards. He couldn’t go back, back was fists and glass and screaming. His mother’s silent wail screwing up her face as she realized her son couldn’t hear. There was terror in her eyes. Clint could feel it in his chest.

Phil was there, trying to catch his gaze. He gently reached out but Clint took a step back. No. No. No.

Phil’s eyes were full of pain and Clint watched as it hardened. He braced for the slap, the fist, the punch. But nothing came. Instead there was a deathly low order from Phil for the other men to go in the principal’s office. Clint realized then that Coach Garrett was there along with Pierce himself. They disappeared into an office. Maria sat in a chair opposite where Clint was standing. She tapped the seat next to her, but Clint stayed still. He didn’t want to sit next to her because she was going to take him back.

His eyes moved to the frosted glass of Principal Pierce’s office. He heard voices screaming.

He wasn’t sure when he ended up on the floor, but Maria was suddenly next to him. He let her help him to a chair because he suddenly felt tired. His mouth filled with something nasty and he belatedly realized it was vomit. It ended up on the tile floor where he’d been. Maria was suddenly there again and so was Phil, but Clint was too tired to fight anything.

He welcomed the blackness.


	20. Chapter 20

**Scene 20**

“Please take a seat, Mr. Coulson,” Alexander Pierce offered, resuming his own position in a posh chair behind a large desk. Coulson supposed any man that could afford to build his own school probably didn’t skimp on any luxuries for himself.

Phil lowered himself to the offered chair, keeping an eye on Garrett who stood beside Pierce like an obedient dog.

“Now what’s this about, Mr. Coulson. You sounded very upset over the phone.”

That was putting it mildly. He himself wasn’t all that aware of what he’d said during the call he’d put in to the school while Maria drove him there. All he knew was that he’d kept his voice relatively even, calm, and that some rather colorful language had slipped out in place of the raging fury he was currently feeling.

Phil fished his phone from his pocket and handed it over to Pierce after pulling up the video that had been sent to him. Pierce slid on a pair of glasses and watched the video what appeared to be twice before pulling off the glasses and handing the phone to Garrett.

“Where did you get that?”

Phil narrowed his eyes. He should’ve known they’d start with trying to deny it happened. “A friend of Clint’s is in that class. He sent it to me.” It wasn’t really a lie. He had no idea who’d sent the footage, but he figured his answer was close enough to the truth.

Pierce turned to Garrett. “Did you notice anyone filming?”

Garrett shrugged. “Was coaching the game.”

Pierce coolly turned back to Phil, spreading open his hands. “You’re upset by this.”

Phil stared at him in disbelief, blinked once, twice, turned his gaze to Garrett. “You hit my child.”

Garrett remained unmoved. “Kid was mouthing off.”

“So you slap him in the face?” Phil turned back to Pierce. “This can’t be allowed. You code of conduct-”

“We are a private school, Mr. Coulson. We have policies in place that allow our instructors to discipline students using corporal punishment.”

“That wasn’t cor-”

“These policies are clearly lined out in our student handbook-”

“I don’t think you-”

“-a copy of which each SHIELD student received on his or her first day here. Furthermore-”

“YOU _HIT_ A DOMESTIC ABUSE CASE!” Phil pounded his hand on Pierce’s stupid opulent desk with each word.

They didn’t move, eyes slightly wider now.  

“Do you have any idea what that means?” Phil went on, voice an angry hiss.

Pierce straightened a pen Phil had knocked out of place with his outburst. “Mr. Coulson-”

“I’m not done,” he cut sharply. He leaned in. “For five years I’ve worked with Clint to get him to a point where he was relatively comfortable in the knowledge that he didn’t deserve to be beaten for his mistakes. And now, less than five minutes ago, my son, my own _son_ , pulled away from me because he was afraid I’d hurt him. And that’s all thanks to you, Mr. Garrett. Because in slapping my child in the face you have reinstalled in him an ingrained fear of adult men.”

Pierce cleared his throat. “What would you like us to do, Mr. Coulson? A formal apology perhaps?”

Phil shook his head. “I want this man fired.”

Garrett smirked. Pierce pulled in a breath. “Mr. Coulson, I’m afraid that-”

“If you end that sentence with any variation of ‘that won’t happen,’ I’m leaving this office and taking my son with me. And the next time you see either one of us will be in court.”

“Now-”

“Phil!” Maria burst in, eyes full of panic. “Seizure.”

Phil scrambled from his chair onto his crutches, hobbling his way out to the waiting room and dropping to the floor beside Clint. The boy was convulsing but it ended before Coulson could get him on his side. Clint’s eyes fluttered opened but didn’t seem to be focused on anything. Phil tried to get him up, telling Maria to get the car. Clint threw up on the floor then seemed to pass out.

Pierce offered to help move the boy, but Phil refused. He wasn’t going to let either one of those two men touch his son.

Maybe it wasn’t the wisest choice, seeing as he was still on crutches with his broken leg. It took some maneuvering but Coulson managed to get Clint to the front door. Maria took over from there, loading both of them into the backseat as she took off for the hospital. She overheard Phil whispering as he gently stroked Clint’s hair how sorry he was, how things were going to be okay.

She just hoped they were.

…

Phil was sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair with his leg propped up in an identical chair across from him. His hand, now almost completely bandage free save for one or two badly burned spots, tightly clutched his son’s from where he lay in the hospital bed. This wasn’t new. And yet Phil still wasn’t used to it.

He’d talked to the doctor for a long time about what had happened, taking in Maria’s first hand account to try and determine if Clint had had a panic attack that triggered his seizure or if it had been a precursor to the seizure itself. Not that the answer mattered in the moment. Clint was back in the hospital. Clint had been hurt. He’d been _hit._ Someone had laid a hand on him. And Phil was fucking pissed.

He was outraged at Garrett, furious at Pierce. But he was also angry at himself. Clint had been so distant since starting at Pierce Secondary. Phil had just brushed that off as a mixture of change, Clint’s medication, and general teenage-ness. But maybe there had been something bigger underlying all of it. No. There _had_ to be something bigger. And he’d missed it. He’d missed the warning signs and now his son was in the hospital hurt.

His heart shattered every time he saw this view. Clint was already small for his age. Why did the hospital setting make him seem so unfairly more so?

He squeezed Clint’s hand in his gently. Steve, Tony, Bruce, and Thor would be here shortly. Phil had told them Clint was okay and just resting, but they didn’t back down. They wanted to be here, to support Phil or just to be there. It still amazed Phil sometimes how big his family had grown.

He’d dreamed of Audrey and Jude while he’d been in the hospital after the fire. There were flames forming a wall with them on one side and the boys on the other. He’d woken up feeling feverish.

Clint stirred and after a few moments his eyes fluttered open. Those big grey-blue eyes that made Phil’s heart swell.

Clint looked at him curiously, blinking heavily before moisture gathered at the corner of his eyes.

 _“Clint?”_ Phil asked. He slipped his hand away so he could sign. “ _You’re okay now. Safe now.”_

But Clint shook his head. “Don’t make me leave,” he begged in a hoarse, broken voice.

_“Leave?”_

Clint blinked some more. “Maria was going to take me back.”

 _“No she wasn’t,”_ Phil clarified, temporarily skipping over the shock of such an assessment. “ _She can’t, Clint. I adopted you. You’re not in the foster system. You’re mine.”_

The boy swallowed visibly. Phil noted the heart monitor slowing down, unsure of when it had picked up.

Phil ran a hand through Clint’s hair before continuing. “ _We were there to talk to the principal about Coach Garrett’s behavior.”_ He didn’t want to say “about Coach Garrett hitting you.” It was too raw, too close.

Clint closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He remained still so long that Phil thought for a minute that he’d dozed off. But the next words were a breathy whisper, a broken stream of pain and fear and effort of trying not to show weakness. “He hit me.”

Phil squeezed his hand tighter. Clint still had his eyes closed and his hearing aids were out on the table next to him. Phil couldn’t verbally tell him that it was over, that he’d never be hit again. So he just held his son’s hand and ran the other through his hair and tried to comfort him without making a single sound.

The boys came and visited for a couple hours. Clint seemed a little brighter with them there. Steve sat next to him on the bed; Tony made terrible jokes and hit on the nurse when she came in. Bruce stayed sitting on a chair by the window with his knees tucked up to his chest. He didn’t like hospitals, needed the outside light to keep his pulse rate down, to remind him he’s not confined, not caged. Clint smiled at him, knowing too well what that was like.

Thor was Thor. Loud and booming, but so full of care and love and devotion that Clint couldn’t help but feel better. They left around five thirty after Tony had complained for the millionth time about being hungry. They promised to save Clint some pizza for when he got home the next day – the hospital was keeping him over night for observation. The seizure might have been rather short, but it had still happened. The doctor had rattled something off about the possibility of his medication helping with the severity of his symptoms or something like that. Clint hadn’t really listened.

Phil stayed. Phil was not leaving.

It was later, around bedtime when Clint finally asked the question that had been on his mind since he’d woken up.

_“What now?”_

_“What now, what?”_ Phil responded, hobbling back over to his chair set-up and propping up his leg.

_“What do I do about Coach Garrett?”_

Phil frowned deeply. “ _You don’t, Clint.”_

Clint narrowed his brows in confusion.

Phil continued. “ _You’re not going back there. I won’t put you in that kind of danger.”_

_“I’m not going to run away from it, Phil.”_

_“It’s not running away, Clint. It’s protecting yourself. “_

_“It’s weak.”_

Phil shook his head. “ _No, Clint. It’s not weak to stay out of harm’s way. It’s smart.”_ He took in the kid’s hardened eyes. “ _Clint,”_ he tried again, _“you don’t have to deal with that kind of pain. You don’t have to prove that you can take it. It’s not some kind of test of your strength. We all know you’re strong.”_ He sighed, his shoulders sagging. “ _I died when I saw the video, Clint.”_

_“What video?”_

_“The one your friend sent me.”_

Clint concentrated on that. It must’ve been Wade. Everyone else wouldn’t have had a way to record the incident. And Wade had been there for some reason. He’d have to ask…

He couldn’t. Apparently he wasn’t going back to Pierce Secondary.

 _“But what about my friends?”_ Clint wondered.

_“You can stay in touch with them. Hang out on weekends, after school. I’m not asking you to give them up, Clint. But I can’t let you back into that school. I can’t run the risk of anything like this happening to you again.”_

Clint frowned. He’d miss Matt and Wade and even Luke and Danny. Part of him wanted to scream that this was unfair, that it was his life and he could chose to stay if he wanted to. But thinking on it, Phil was right. Pierce hadn’t been a great place. He’d been teased, bullied, hit. And Natasha…

He nodded once to Phil in acceptance. He needed to leave Pierce Secondary behind. Too much bad had happened there. But that left the same question he’d started with.

_“What now?”_

Phil again frowned. “ _I have a friend who teaches a homeschool group.”_

Clint rolled his eyes.

 _“Don’t give me that. Besides, I’m not sure if she’ll have room.”_ That was a lie. Phil was sure she would. The problem was would she talk to him long enough to hear him out and accept Clint as a student. Their last encounter hadn’t been the best and they’d left on rather poor terms.

Clint was starting to look sleepy and was settling into the pillows and sheets.

 _“Tired?”_ Phil needlessly asked.

Clint nodded. He didn’t really want to sleep. Sleep would undoubtedly be filled with nightmares of fists and silence, of red hair and betrayals. Of screams and tears and pain. It was still fresh in his mind. His cheek still stung. But Phil was here and Steve had brought Hawkeye. When he inevitably woke up from twisted red memories, at least he’d have reminders of his present to guide his heartbeat back to normal.

 _“Get some rest,”_ Phil instructed.

Clint closed his eyes, keeping Hawkeye tucked up under his arm. He hadn’t slept with the stuffed bird in a long time, but didn’t feel the shame of having it there. It was comforting and grounding. Just like Phil’s hand on his that he knew the man had taken only because he’d thought the boy was asleep.

But Clint didn’t let go.


	21. Chapter 21

**Scene 21**  

Natasha stood under a tree in the playground of SHIELD elementary and surveyed the charred end of the school. It was obvious that the fire had started in this end of the school and had spread. She tried to remember if it had been a windy day, but all her memory could recall was the heat and the panic she’d viciously shoved away.

Clint had been there. Stuck in the building. Trying to get a little girl out. His stupid big heart was going to kill her. That is, if it didn’t get him killed first…

She pushed that thought aside. She needed to stay focused. She was here for recon. She pulled her phone from her pocket and clicked on the camera app. She needed photographic evidence. If she could get pictures of the accidental SHIELD fire, then she could have someone look at them and compare them to the ones she had hidden of the fire that killed her parents. She could use these photos as proof that her family had been murdered. She just needed to find someone she could trust to show them to, someone who could help her.

But first things first.

She took a step towards the school when she heard a throat clear behind her.

“Don’t you know it’s foolish to return to the scene of the crime?”

“That would make one of us a fool,” Natasha countered as she turned to face Loki. “And it isn’t me.”

The dark haired boy brushed his bangs from his eyes and frowned, tapping a long, bony finger to his chin. “Hmm.” He seemed to think long and hard on this. “Yet you’re the one here with a camera ready. Come to photograph your good work?”

Natasha crossed her arms over her chest. “You really think I’m capable of setting fire to an elementary school?”

He shrugged. “You thought it of me.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “You just so happen to have wormed your way into Clint’s head and gotten him to almost pull the fire alarm. When he didn’t go through with it, you needed to resort to drastic measures.”

Loki looked utterly offended. “Oh please, Natasha, even I’m not that cold.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “There was a piece of information I needed from Fury’s office. Clint pulling the alarm would’ve been a distraction. Nothing more.”

Nat shook her head. “Then what are you doing here?” she jabbed, hoping he’d realize he’d slipped up and just leave her alone. She didn’t have time for this. And she sure as hell didn’t need Loki trying to mind game her; she had work to do.

No such luck. Loki grinned. “You’ve had your thumb in some interesting pies lately, Natasha.”

“That so?” she asked as she approached the school, ducking nonchalantly under the caution tape. Loki followed with similar ease. It looked like she wasn’t going to shake him, the annoying wart. Might as well get work done in the meantime. It’d be easier to ignore him that way.

“It is,” Loki conceded. “First you go from a strong student to skipping classes, you hang out with a low and dirty gang at Pierce, you viciously shove away your best friend but still keep tabs on him through any and every form of social media, subscribing to the accounts of anyone with some form of contact with him – I think it’s safe to assume it was you that sent the video to Coulson. Loved the drama.”

“He was in the hospital,” Nat hissed, stepping over a charred beam and picking her way through ashy debris.

Loki didn’t seem to care. “And then you end up here. A lot of pieces, Natasha, but I’m not sure the picture their make.”

Natasha didn’t answer him and instead slipped a small flashlight from her pocket to illuminate the treacherous ground. It was Sunday so at least the concern of being caught by construction workers was a no go. She would just have to be careful not to disturb anything, or fall through anything, or like, collapse the ceiling. She pretty much figured she could manage. So long as Loki did the same. Luckily he seemed to be following her footsteps.

“Ever think maybe that’s the point,” she flippantly answered Loki, swinging her flashlight around, checking for badly burned spots. She’d done a little research online for signs of where a fire had started and was searching for a V-shaped pattern, though not really expecting to find one. She really had no idea what she was doing, just hoping, really.

“What are we doing exactly?” Loki asked as he came up closer behind her, flicking his dark hair from his face.

“ _We_ aren’t doing anything. _I’m_ searching.”

“For the fire’s cause?”

She didn’t answer. Then again, she really didn’t need to. Loki might’ve been annoying but he wasn’t stupid.

Again he put a finger to his chin and hummed low in this throat.

“What?” Natasha finally gave in, redirecting her flashlight to the ceiling. There was serious water damage from where the firefighters had doused the flames.

“Is this because of the footage?”

Nat spun to turn the light on him. “What footage?”

Loki grinned, his teeth overly white in the beam of the flashlight. “How about we bargain?”

Nat rolled her eyes again. “Yeah, uh huh, sure,” she dismissed, resuming her hunt. She examined the clutter for signs of directional melting.

“It’s a simple trade off, Natasha. I’ll tell you about the footage if you give me something in return.”

“And what would that be?” She didn’t like debts, especially ones to serpents.

“You tell me why you ripped Clint’s poor heart from his chest when it’s so obvious you love him.”

“Who says I love him.” _The entire school_ , she added mentally. It wasn’t exactly a new joke. She’d been teased more than once about her and Clint K-I-S-S-I-N-G in tree. But she’d never credited the jabs and jests as anything more than immaturity. What she felt for Clint, love or something else entirely, couldn’t be quantified with four letters and an overused phrase. He was her best friend. He was hope and light and warmth. And she couldn’t stand the idea that her current situation would poison any of that.

Loki didn’t seem to buy her response. Instead he just flipped his bangs back and stuck out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Nat didn’t like the sight of his extended hand and what it meant. Making a deal with Loki? Uhg, how far was she going to have to go down this fucking rabbit hole?

“Fine,” she agreed, taking his hand and hating how cold it was.

“Ladies first,” he offered with an open palm.

Nat rolled her eyes once more. “You’re lips better be sealed, snake boy.”

He grinned but offered no other answer.

“I’m currently in a situation that any association with me could mean danger.” She shrugged. He never said she couldn’t be vague.

The answer didn’t seem to please him, but a deal was a deal. He motioned for her to hand over her phone. He keyed something in and handed the phone back to Natasha. “It’s a server number. He smiled smugly. “I was going to give you the time code. But your lack of specificity cost you,” he added, tossing his bangs from his face. “Follow your nose, Natasha. You’ll find that where you smell smoke, there will be fire.”  

“What the hell does that mean?” Nat inquired staring at the number then back at Loki.

Loki just shrugged. “Happy hunting.”

He picked his way back through the ashes and Natasha watched him carefully until he had ducked under the caution tape. She looked at the number before going back to her camera app. But after a minute she switched to messaging and sent a quick one to James.

 _Meet me at 7_.

Her eyes traced back over the charred remains of the school. She snapped some shots of the far wall, the one with the most damage. Maybe she could pull something from that.

It started to snow as she walked back.

…

“Any luck?” James asked. He tossed her a plate with a slice of a half-cold pizza on it. She nibbled at it distractedly.

“I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for,” she groaned, dusting pizza crumbs off her hands and wiping the grease on her pants before returning to her computer screen. She’d hacked the server that Loki and given her the number for and was now reviewing security camera footage of the day of fire. The camera was at an angle that showed the south wall of the school, but not much else. So all she’d seen so far was a lone smoker and a group of eighth graders trading bags of what was suspiciously pot-looking. She didn’t think that was what Loki had in mind.

Then again Loki could’ve just been looking to lead her on a wild goose chase. Tricked her into a deal so he could pry information from her. And what was with wanting to know about her and Clint’s current standing? She shook it off for now, not wanting to think about Clint or how he’d only gotten out of the hospital two days ago. How she couldn’t be there to make sure he was doing okay.

She set the pizza plate on top of her American History textbook. She should be studying for her final test before break coming up on Thursday, but this was far more important.

“Most of the footage is just of grass growing. Seriously, it’s a boring end of the school.”

“But it’s the one that caught fire,” James amended. He slid in next to her and shoved her laptop so it sat more in between them. “Mind if I take a look?”

Natasha shrugged in response. James scanned through the footage until he came to the guy smoking a cigarette out back. His brows narrowed. “You see this?”

Nat nodded. “He’s there for like fifteen minutes then goes away.”

James nodded but checked the time signature. Ten minutes after his break the school caught fire. The police ruled the cause as faulty wiring, but something about this guy was making James’s mind run. A cigarette butt could’ve started a fire…

“Can we zoom in on his face?” James asked.

Nat snorted. “Oh sure, because we’re totally CSI and have magical imaging software.”

He shoved her shoulder. “Just do it.”

Nat zoomed in some to the guy’s face, but it was blurry, pixelated. “You wanna ask if he has traceable tattoos next?”

James rolled his eyes. “Just trying to help, ya pain in the ass.”

She laughed at that but it felt suddenly heavy. James was a great friend, but his humor was so much like Clint’s it struck her hard sometimes that the jokes weren’t coming from him. God, she missed him. One look at James’s face told her maybe he was thinking of his best friend too. She wondered momentarily if they used to joke like this.

She started to zoom out of the footage when James stopped her.

“Look at his hands,” he began.

“What about them?” Natasha questioned.

“The way he’s holding the cigarette. It’s under his knuckles.”

Natasha leaned in, trying to make out what James was saying. In the grainy image she could barely see where the man was holding the cigarette between two fingers right in the fork of his digits.

James went on, “Mikhail holds his that way. He’s missing his middle finger down to the knuc…kle.”

Natasha turned to look at him as the same realization began to dawn on her. “You don’t think?”

James nodded. “Not a lot of guys in the area missing that particular finger.” His eyes grew somber. “Nat, I think this was a hit, a hit on you.”

Nat shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. Why try to kill me? And at school?”

“Your parents did piss off the Czar when they tried to get the street to rally against him.”

“And that’s why Ivan had them killed and is raising me as his heir. He’s already gotten his revenge.”

“Independent hit then. You did bump a lot of guys down the list for next in line.”

“But why burn down the school? Why not shoot me in the middle of the street?”

James frowned. “Don’t say things like that,” he mumbled.

Nat rolled her eyes. “You know it’s a possibility.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to jinx yourself or anything.” He pulled her laptop closer and looked at the frozen image. “What’s in that area of the school?”

“Storage closets, an old science lab,” Natasha answered. “Honestly, it’s an empty part of the school. No one really goes there.” She played with a thread on her sock. “Unless they’re me skipping class.”

James looked at her, brow furrowed in concentration. “Maybe this wasn’t a hit. Maybe it was a message.”

“What kind of message though? ‘Watch out or we’ll kill you?’ ‘We’ll burn everything you l-‘” She stopped. “You don’t think they know about…about him?”

James shrugged, but the deep frown on his face belied any indifference. “I think we need to be careful. Keep our heads low, stay in with the gang at Hydra as camouflage, keep our mouths shut.”

Footsteps on the stairs outside Natasha’s door floated in, signaling Ivan’s turning in for the night. Off a warning look from Natasha, James stood up and went to the window to escape down the side of the house. But he stopped and turned back to her. “We need to get out of here, Nat.”

She nodded, heavy sigh leaving her body. She grabbed her textbook to continue studying. “Thanks for the pizza, James.”

But he was already gone.

Nat began to read the assigned chapter but stopped when her phone buzzed. A notification for an update to WWDeadpool98’s SnapChat story was displayed on the screen. She checked it, only to find Wade making faces at the camera while reciting the opening to the Gettysburg Address in Pig Latin. Well not all of it was gold. But it provided a way to keep eyes on Clint.

But after the incident with Garrett and being in the hospital from it, Natasha doubted she’d see Clint at school tomorrow.

Her shoulders sagged. This was what was best; this would keep him safe. But she’d need a new way to get eyes on him.

And in that moment she was drawing a blank.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of murder

**Scene 22**

Phil slid into a dark suit jacket and frowned a little at how it was a little snug in the middle when he buttoned it. Then again, the last time he’d worn it had been six years ago. His hand clutched the ticket stub he’d found in his pocket. Audrey’s recital. The last time he’d seen her alive.

With blurry eyes he put the stub on his dresser top and straightened his navy blue tie in the mirror on the back of his bedroom door. He didn’t mind the small space that used to be – and kind of still was – his office. It gave the boys the room they deserved.

He ran a hand through his hair, trying to ignore its thinning, and opened the door to limp through the living room and to the haltree to gather his coat and scarf and crutches. Steve was at the kitchen table with Clint, the latter quizzing the former with index cards for his history final.

“I’ll be back later,” Phil called, buttoning up his coat quickly so that they didn’t see the finer suit underneath. It wasn’t that he was _intending_ to keep this a secret, but if things didn’t work out he didn’t want Clint to be disappointed.

“Bye, Phil,” Steve called out.

“Have fun at the meeting,” Clint added.

Meeting. That was what it was, what he’d told them he had going on tonight. But it felt like a lie. It wasn’t. He was going to a meeting. It just happened to be with an old colleague who may or may not still hate his guts…

Maria was already in the driveway waiting on him.

“Thank you again, Maria,” he offered as he scrambled into her car, pulling his crutches in after him and moving them to the backseat.

“Driving your sorry ass through the snow to a questionable date was too good to pass up,” she gibed dryly, pulling out of the driveway.  

“It’s not a date,” Coulson reminded her.

“Uh huh. Suit, tie, fancy restaurant that I don’t even get to eat at with you.”

“I told you I’d get you a piece of pie,” he retorted with a small smile.

“And that’s why I agreed.” She put on her blinker and turned left in a textbook manner.

“Glad your friendship is so easily won,” Phil snarked.

They fell into silence for a while before Maria sighed. “Are you sure about this, Phil?”

He shook his head. “But I’m a little out of options at the moment.” He played with his dress shirt buttons. “Besides, it’s water under the bridge, right?”

“Yeah, a burnt bridge.” She changed lanes, precise and stiff in her motions. “What makes you think she’ll say yes?”

“Because she’ll understand that Clint deserves this.”

Maria shook her head but stayed quiet. It was several minutes before she pulled onto Main Street and stopped in front of the elegant eatery that was Phil’s destination. She helped him get his crutches and reminded him to text her when he was done so she could pick him up.

Phil waved goodbye to his friend and hobbled his way into the restaurant. After a brief chat with the hostess, he located his guest and former colleague.  

As he approached he took in her blank expression and schooled features. She was completely poker faced. Maybe Maria’s reservations about this meeting were warranted after all.

“Phil Coulson,” she addressed as he sat down across from her, setting his crutches to the side.

“Melinda May,” he answered.

The waiter appeared and inquired about drinks. Phil asked if May wanted wine. She shook her head. They both ordered water.

After the waiter left, May stared down Coulson. “Have to admit,” she began, “I was a little surprised you called.”

“I was even more surprised you said yes.” He took a drink of water, now really wishing he’d gone with the wine.

“I was curious,” May disclosed. She pointed to Phil’s leg, indicating the cast. “Slip on the ice?”

“Crushed it in the fire at SHIELD.”

May looked…hurt. It was hard to tell on her schooled features. She cleared her throat. “I uh… I did try to call. When I saw it on the news, I called your number to see if everything was okay. You didn’t answer.”

“Hospital,” Phil answered.

She nodded. “I guess I got busy after that, what with the kids and all.”

“Yeah how’s the group?”

“Really good this year. I’ve got two brilliant young minds with a passion for science.”

Phil laughed heartedly. “I know that feeling. They blow up your kitchen yet?”

May frowned. “No. Both they and I have far too much discipline for that to happen.”

Phil opened his mouth to defend himself, but stopped. Arguing wouldn’t get him anywhere. Not tonight.

May went on. “I’ve got two eighth graders who can be a handful. They bicker constantly.” She let her lips slip into a tight smile. “They’ll probably be a couple by the end of next month.”

Phil grinned back. He forgot sometimes how much emotion traversed a young mind. Eighth grade was when Steve had finally asked out Peggy. And that had turned out well.

“And Skye?” he asked cautiously.

May took a long drink of her water. “She’s doing well, all things considering.”

Phil nodded.

“Heard you got one too.”

“Hmm?”

“You adopted,” May clarified.

“Right. Yes, I did. Clint. He’s thirteen.” He cleared his throat, opened his mouth to move the conversation to where it needed to go, but the waiter returned to take their order before he got the chance. Phil picked something at random off the menu.

May looked back at him, intense gaze reminding him of all the water under the bridges that Maria might have been right in saying were burned. But he needed Melinda’s help. He closed his eyes and gathered himself for a moment.

“Melinda,” he sighed, “I need your help.”

She didn’t move a muscle. Her stillness had always unnerved him. Already being unnerved, it kind of creeped him out. But he went for it anyway. “As you know, until SHIELD is rebuilt, the middle school students have been sent to Pierce Secondary.”

She still didn’t move.

“But there was an incident. Clint got hurt. And long story short, I can’t send him back there. So I need-”

“You need a place for him to go.”

He nodded.

“And you’re asking me.”

“Surely your homeschool group has enough room for one more. And it would only be for the spring. SHIELD should be fixed by next fall.”

She frowned, a single finger tracing the condensation on her water glass.

“Look I know you don’t have much reason to trust me.”

“That’s not what this is about, Phil.”

“But it is.” He pinched his eyes closed, ran a hand down his jaw. “I was wrong, Melinda. I made a bad call.”

“You chose to see good in someone that wasn’t there, Phil,” she corrected. But she sighed deeply afterwards. “I don’t blame you for what happened. Not really. I tell myself I do, but then I remember that doesn’t make sense.” She played some more with her glass. “You wanted to give Ward a second chance, just like you want to give everyone a second chance. It was his fault he didn’t use it.”

Phil let his shoulders sink. She was right, technically. But he still felt a little guilty. Once upon a time, May had been a friend and frequent case partner. Grant Ward had been a case they’d worked together shortly after Phil had moved to town with a bride-to-be Audrey at his side.

It was a tough case. Ward had allegedly drowned his little brother in a well. The kid had some serious mental issues. But he showed promise in recovery. May had argued that he should go to Juvie; Phil had pushed for a sort of halfway home. It would’ve given the kid structure, discipline, but also would’ve allowed him space and freedom to recover. Ward killed his bunkmate in a fight two weeks into the program.

May had been furious, had tendered her resignation shortly after, leaving social work to pursue teaching. She’d married and together they’d adopted a girl named Skye.

Phil always regretted that case and how it had separated them. He’d lost his best friend that day.

Audrey had kept in touch with May through Christmas cards and the occasional email. Melinda had been at the funeral but couldn’t find the strength to approach a desperately distraught Phil.    

“I don’t think I ever got to say how sorry I was to hear about…about them,” May stated, trying and failing to keep the emotion from her voice. She’d always liked Audrey.

“And I was sorry to hear about you and Andrew.”

She tilted her head. “I didn’t know you even knew about the divorce.”

“Maria told me.” A beat. “I tried to call, but-”

“But you got busy.” She sighed. She looked up as if thinking and was about to say something when their food arrived.

It was a welcomed distraction. The air was heavy with trudged up pieces of ashen bridges. Moments of sadness clinging to the air like low hanging clouds, heavy and oppressive. They ate mostly in silence, each trying to get the conversation going again. But it became obvious that that wasn’t happening tonight.

They walked out, well Phil limped out on his crutches, and Melinda waited with him for Maria to pick him up, offering to drive him herself. But they both didn’t really want to deal with any more awkwardness. Maria pulled up and Phil took a step to her car before May called out his name. He turned to look at her.

She smiled a little, sadness and raw emotion still lining her eyes. “I never answered you.”

He raised a brow.

“Yes. I have room for one more student.”

“Melinda, I-”

She put up a hand to stop him. “What happened, happened. No use dwelling on it.” She shoved her gloved hands into her pockets. “Send the paperwork over and I’ll see him on the fifth.”

Phil was beaming. “Melinda… thank you.”

She waved it off.

Phil turned back to Maria’s car and went two more steps before calling out to May. “Merry Christmas, Melinda. And say hi to Skye for me.”

She nodded once. “Merry Christmas, Phil.” She left for her own vehicle.

Phil slid into the passenger side of Maria’s car and once more maneuvered his crutches to the back.

“How’d it go?” Maria inquired, taking off down the street once Phil was strapped in.

“Better than expected.”

“Well you already had a broken leg. Maybe she felt sorry for you.”

“Your confidence over bounds.”

She shrugged a shoulder. “Glad things worked out.”

Phil smiled. And it felt good. Because tonight hadn’t been a disaster. Strained, yes. Uncomfortable? Sure. But Clint had a place to go for school after the holiday and Phil still had his bones in tact. Mostly.

They lapsed into silence before Maria broke it with, “By the way, where’s my pie?”       


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about nice Christmas chapter?

**Scene 23**

Christmas cheer was swirling in the air the week before the holiday. Stores played carols, ribbons and tinsel danced on the snowy breeze, and children stood in line quivering in anticipation of seeing Santa.

Since the incident with Garrett, Clint hadn’t gone back to Pierce Secondary. He knew he was going to be going to some homeschool for the spring semester and was a little nervous about it, but for now he was concentrating on helping Phil finish up Christmas shopping. It was nice, actually, having him all to himself again. Not that Clint minded the other boys, but there was something almost nostalgic about it being just him and Phil around the house.

“Any idea what to get Tony?” Phil asked as they hobbled along the sidewalk, Clint keeping his eyes out for ice patches in the way of Phil’s crutches.

“That depends,” Clint started. “Can it be radioactive?” He smirked at Phil’s answering eye roll.

“How about Bruce? I have some ideas, but I didn’t know if maybe he’d dropped any hints to you.”

Clint shook his head. None of the guys had talked about Christmas Wish List items. They’d all grown up without that notion: Steve because of financial strain due to medical bills, and Bruce because of his father, and Tony because what does a billionaire who can buy whatever his heart desires any day of the year need with a wish list. Even Thor had kept quiet about his holiday wants. Although, the common consensus for him seemed to be various American snack foods. Clint briefly wondered if the teenager would go back to Asgard for the holiday.

“Well I’m sure we’ll find something,” Phil concluded. They’d walked to the diner near SHIELD where Sandy worked and ordered lunch.

They didn’t talk a lot during the meal, each in their own thoughts: Phil thinking about how much he’d missed this, about going around town with Clint in tow, bantering back and forth; and Clint’s mind kept circling back to all the times he’d been here with Nat.

The last time had been in February, a few days after he’d gone on his meds. She’d been a little distant then, but nothing like now where she was shoving him away. Or _shoved_ really.

 _“You okay?”_ Phil asked after a moment, concerned about the boy’s fallen expression.

Clint nodded. “ _Did you want to still hit up that art store to find those markers Steve was looking at?”_

Phil hesitated at the change in subject but decided to let it go for now. “ _Not any more today,”_ he answered. “ _My pits are getting sore from the crutches and we still have to walk back home.”_

Clint nodded, a small smile creeping onto his face.

Once back home, Clint went out to play with Lucky and Phil sat on the couch. He turned on a Christmas movie with the intention of folding laundry to it, but he fell asleep about halfway through.

Clint came in, shook his head at the sight, and picked up what laundry was folded to put it away. He was depositing a stack of shirts onto Phil’s dresser when he saw it.

It was a ticket stub, slightly wrinkled with a tear in the top left corner. But the print was still perfectly legible. CHRISTMAS WITH THE SYMPHONY, it read in elegant script.

Clint carefully picked it up to look it over further. It was from a concert six years ago. A Christmas concert six years ago.

He set it down as realization dawned on him. It was the ticket stub from Audrey’s last performance.

He left Phil’s room with a deep frown on his face and a tentative idea in his mind.

…

Tony rolled his eyes. He was one – ONE! – item away on the stupid checklist from being done. The Coat-A-Kid Foundation one. And they’d closed the doors mere moments before he’d gotten there.

What? It wasn’t his fault he’d gotten caught up on a project. He’d been on the verge of a scientific breakthrough that could lead to rocket boots. Rocket boots! Oh how he’d wished he had a pair. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been late.

Needing a moment to sulk over his loss of a date with Pepper in time for Christmas Eve, Tony sat down on the sidewalk and propped his chin on his hands, elbow on his knee. The coat he’d intended to drop off was back home in his lab.

His mind drifted back to the rocket boots, recalculating percentages of thrust capacity. He was so deep in thought he almost missed the small voice behind him.

“Excuse me,” the kid called again.

Tony turned to face a small child, about eight years old with shaggy blonde hair and big blue eyes blinking heavily as snowflakes landed in his lashes.

“Is this… that is… is this where, um... The Coat-A-Kid thing?”

Tony frowned. “Sorry, kid. They’re closed.”

The boy frowned, his expression pulling downward in time to his sagging shoulders. “Oh.”

He turned to leave, hands in his pockets. Tony noticed then that the shirt he wore was thin, his jeans a little dirty. It hit that this boy wasn’t here to donate a coat, but to get one.

“Hey wait up,” Tony called out, hurrying over to the kid. “You’re here for a coat, right?”

The boy took a second but eventually nodded.

Tony unzipped his, and shoved it into the boy’s arms. It was far too big, swallowing the kid up when he put it on. But the way the boy’s eyes lit up seemed to counter the idea of the jacket not fitting.

“But what about you?” the kid asked.

Tony shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve got another one at home.”

The kid nodded then stuck out his hand. “I’m Harley.”

Tony started at the hand. It looked a little wet, maybe even sticky, the way kid’s hands tended to be. He hesitantly took the hand, wondering if it’d be too rude to ask for the thing of hand sanitizer in the now-kid’s coat pocket.

“What’s your name?” the boy asked as Tony not-so-discreetly wiped his hand on his pants leg.

“Hmm, oh, uh, you know what?” Tony started, not ready to be on a first name basis with a child. “Just call me the mechanic.”

The kid’s – Harley’s – eyes widened. “Cool! Do you build stuff?”

“Here and there.”

“That’s so cool! My mom got me Legos for my birthday. I built some stuff with those.”

“That’s… interesting,” Tony answered. He was ready to go get back to work on those rocket boots. He’d done his good deed, could cross it off the list. He needed to call Pepper, tell her he’d finished.

The kid tugged on Tony’s shirtsleeve. “Wanna come see?”

“I can’t, kid. I’ve got to get back. Got stuff to build.”

Harley’s face fell. “Oh. Okay.” He pulled the coat a little tighter around himself. “Thanks for the coat, mister mechanic.” He walked away a few steps, wiped his runny nose on the sleeve of the coat. Tony rolled his eyes.

“You just got the thing. Don’t…”

Harley turned to face him, eyes innocent and wide.

“Don’t…” But Tony couldn’t do it. Couldn’t tell this kid he’d done anything wrong. “You know what,” he started, letting images of rocket boots fade for a moment. “What if we build something with Legos together? I know a place down the street that has a whole pit full of Legos.”

Harley’s big blue eyes widened further. “Really?”

Tony shrugged it off. “Sure. If your parents won’t mind that is.”

Harley’s head hung a little. “Mom’s working until eight.”

The lack of a mention of “Dad” told Tony all he needed to. “Then we’ll play with Legos until seven.”

…

Bruce was beyond nervous. It was four days until Christmas, last day of school before winter break, and only ten minutes until the bell rang. He needed to give Betty the gift he’d gotten her. Tony had tried to tell him that he could literally go across the street any time to hand it to her – she was their next-door neighbor. But her dad would be there. No. School was the only safe option. And science class in particular was the safest. They had that class together, were lab partners most, if not all, of the time. It wouldn’t be as odd, or strange or whatever.

Five minutes.

He began packing up like the other kids had done ten minutes ago. He stared at the little box wrapped in blue wrapping paper as he took it from his bag and set it on his desk, not noticing the hitches in his breath from nerves.

 _Pull yourself together, Bruce,_ he commanded. _You can do this. Just hand it and run. Say you have to meet Steve because he’s driving you home. Just drop it off at her desk on the way out. Just…_

The bell rang. The class turned into a stampede as students shoved for the door. Bruce searched desperately for Betty in the mosh pit of a crowd. He couldn’t find her. Someone shoved into him, causing him to trip. The box tumbled from his hands, getting crushed in the onslaught.

Bruce stood up, shoving his glasses back onto his nose and hurried towards the trampled present. His heart was stuttering in his chest as he gently shook the thing and heard the rattling of pieces.

It had been perfect. A Madam Currie ornament he’d found online. He’d even pitched in the extra dollar seventy-five to have Betty’s name added to the back. And now it was in pieces.  

He closed his eyes, trying to keep his emotions under wraps. He could feel the anger, that terrible heavy ball of anger, rising from the pit of his gut. He was choking on it, ready to toss the offending battered present across the room and run after every student who’d stepped on it.

But then there was a hand. A gentle hand cutting through the rage and settling him down.

“Bruce?” a familiar voice asked. “You okay?”

Bruce opened his eyes and turned to see Betty looking at him with concern adorning her features.

He felt ashamed suddenly. Ashamed of the rage eagerly waiting beneath his skin, ashamed of her seeing him crumble so easily. He looked away from her and back at the battered box in his hands. “They stepped on it,” he muttered. “It was for you,” he barely whispered.

Betty frowned and carefully took the box from his shaky hands. She unwrapped it slowly and smiled when she saw what was inside. It was in pieces, sure, but the front, the one with the image of Madam Currie was still in tact. “Oh, Bruce, it’s beautiful.”

“It’s ruined,” he argued, sitting back on his knees, still not looking at her.

Betty shook her head. “No. It’s just a little damaged. But it’s nothing I can’t fix.” She gently placed a hand under his chin and turned his face towards hers. “You okay?” she asked again.

The soft weight of her hand on his face had his world zeroing in and refocusing. The rage settled. The embarrassment faded. He nodded in answer of her question.

“Good.” She packed up the shattered ornament and put it back in the box. She went to stand up but stopped. Quick as lightning she planted a small kiss on Bruce’s cheek. And as both of their faces reddened, she hurried out the door.

…

Thor had been unsure of this EBay thing that Tony had convinced him to try. But after some guidance from Bruce and some reassurance from Steve, he’d navigated the web for the perfect gift to give his love for Christmas. And he’d found it.

But that didn’t prepare him for the onslaught of nerves he felt in the moment between ringing Jane’s doorbell and waiting for her to answer the door. And it really didn’t prepare him for the shock of Mrs. Foster answering the afore mentioned door rather than her daughter.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Thor blinked, catching up to the moment and then smiled. “Yes. I am here to see the lovely Jane Foster.”

Mrs. Foster was fighting to hide her smile. “It’s not more flowers this time, is it?”

Thor blushed deeply. “No, ma’am. I was told by Jane not to do grand gestures.”

Mrs. Foster eyed the rather large box in Thor’s hands. But she opened the door anyway to let the young man in. Jane was fully capable of handling whatever he’d brought.

“Jane, sweetie,” she called up the stairs, “there’s someone here to see you.”

There was that waiting thing again, and this time is was worse, as Thor eagerly watched the top of the staircase. Soon enough there she was, brown hair flowing over her shoulders, mismatched fuzzy socks on her feet. She looked a little shocked at seeing Thor there with a large box in his hands, boots dripping melted snow onto the entry rug.

“Oh, hi,” she greeted, running a hand through her hair.

“Fair Jane,” he answered. He stared at her a moment before snapping back to reality and handing her the box. It was wrapped beautifully – a little input from Steve making its way into the finished product.

Jane struggled to haul it to the kitchen table where Thor encouraged her to open it, smile huge on his face.

Jane did so, taking care in unwrapping the paper, much to Thor’s annoyance. He was one to tear into wrapped gifts. This precision of undoing it so slowly was maddening.

But he caught the exact moment she realized what he’d gotten her. Her eyes lit up like the stars, the stars she could now see through her gift.

“Thor, it’s… wow.”

She finished taking off the paper. The image of the telescope inside was now fully visible.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

Jane turned to him and smiled wide. “It’s perfect!” She ran and gave him a hug.

“It’s not too grand of a gesture, is it?” He inquired into her soft hair.

She laughed a little and it made him hold her tighter. “It probably is, but… no, Thor it’s perfect.” She pulled away suddenly. “I have something for you too.” She dashed into another room and reemerged a minute later. “I didn’t have time to wrap it, but here.”

It was a deep, rich red, large knitted scarf. Thor took it carefully from her hands and made a show of wrapping it around his neck. It was soft, warm, and it smelled like her.

“Jane, my fair Jane. _This_ is perfect.” He hugged her close again. It was a few moments later when Jane asked if Thor could help haul the telescope to her room to held set it up.

And he was more than delighted to do so.  

…

They’d had a meeting. Steve had delegated tasks to each of them. And now, with only an hour until show time, they set the plan into motion.

Under the guise of saying SHIELD was throwing a Christmas party, Maria picked up Phil and drove him to the theater. Steve followed minutes behind with the rest of the gang all spiffed up. They arrived at the theater and Phil gave them a look that was pure puzzlement until Tony quite ceremoniously whipped out the tickets he’d been in charge of purchasing.

Phil looked at the ticket and then at the boys. “Oh, guys, this is…”

Steve put up a hand to stop him. “This is our Christmas gift to you, Phil.”

Phil blinked back the tears in his eyes as the group traversed the parking lots and sidewalks towards the symphony hall. Thor met up with them there, looking impeccable in a dark suit with a deep red tie. Tony complained under his breath that red was _his_ color.

Thor led them to his family’s private box seating – Frigga, Thor’s mother, was more than delighted to donate their spots to the foster family for this event.

Phil sat between Maria and Clint, his crutches laid on the ground in front of him. The lights dimmed as the orchestra finalized their tuning. The conductor walked on stage and took a bow to polite applause.

It was quite a moment, a breath in.

And then the familiar tune of “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing” filled the hall and Phil felt his heart swell. It was all so familiar. The music and the atmosphere. The smell of winter air and the lemon furnisher polish. He picked out the cellos and listened to their rich sounds, feeling the empty space Audrey had left. That Jude had left. But it was filled with something else. A familiarity of a good friend at his right, and the surrounding love of his found family to his left. They were all here. And through them, through the familiar sound and sensation, he felt like his late wife and child were there as well.

This was the gift from his children. A new memory to mirror his old ones. A new happiness to combat the heaviness such memories had brought.

And as the concert neared its end, Phil was ready to take each one of them into a tight hug and not let go for the rest of the night.

Right before the last song, the conductor turned to the audience. He picked up a hand-held microphone and cleared his throat. “Before we conclude this evening’s concert, we’d like to play a very special selection in memorial to one of our fellow musicians whom we tragically lost six years ago.”

Phil didn’t quite hide the gasp that left his mouth.

The conductor went on. “I am told her family is here this evening and would like to dedicate this piece to them.”

He turned back around to the orchestra and raised his baton. A moment later and there was the rich sound of low strings setting a drone, of higher strings playing a slow harmony, and finally the first chair violinist rising above them with the first few notes of the melody.

“I’ll Be Home For Christmas”

And in that moment, when the tears finally fell from his eyes, and Clint’s small hand found his, Phil knew, with absolute certainty, that he was.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Violence, language, torture

**Scene 24**

Some punk was setting off fireworks to herald in the New Year, making Bucky Barnes roll his eyes. Subtlety was a lost art.

He walked the dark street with his head down. He was in enemy territory, investigating a possible lead on a Ukrainian smuggler who could potentially get him and Nat out. But it had been a dead end and Bucky angrily thrust his hands into his pockets. His left arm was the only part of him that wasn’t cold. The bite in the wind not doing anything to calm him down. He’d always hated the cold.

His mind drifted to all the winters spent in Steve’s kitchen with cocoa in mugs and jokes on their tongues about moving to Florida. Such a stupid dream now. He could never go back to that. He’d given up Steve to keep him safe. And he could never mend that fence.

He lied to Natasha when she asked if her and Clint could go back to being friends once this was all over. He wasn’t sure if she knew he was lying. Maybe she just wanted to believe he wasn’t enough to ignore the truth in front of her eyes.

Even if the street was taken down, sent to the feds, whatever, they’d always be in danger. That was the point of the gang in the first place. Eyes everywhere. Allegiance to one.

Until recently a part of him had hoped that when Nat took over the street she’d fix things. But if Mikhail – and possibly others – were sending messages or putting out hits, or whatever, then it was obvious. They’d never accept her as a leader.

He heard a commotion in the alleyway as he passed. He flicked his eyes over and immediately wished he hadn’t. He should’ve just kept walking. He wasn’t on safe ground, these guys were probably drunk, and he just didn’t have time to fucking deal with this. But they were beating the shit out of the guy. And maybe his mind was still stuck on Steve and cocoa and Florida, but he jumped in to help the poor guy out.

He took down the first of the three whaling on the guy with ease, catching him off guard and slamming his head into a brick wall. The second came at him with his pal close behind. Bucky grabbed the second guy’s fist when it came at him and twisted it, popping the joint. But he missed guy number three’s knee colliding with his side. He instinctually ducked into his aching side. Guy number two swung with the uninjured wrist, but it was sloppy. Bucky blocked it and sent the guy stumbling to join his buddy against the wall. Guy number three smiled wickedly as he broke a glass bottle over the scrap of a wooden crate. He lunged at Bucky, sharp edges coming fast, but Bucky sidestepped it and swung with his prosthetic arm. It collided hard with the guy’s gut. Number three slashed with the bottle wildly, getting a lucky cut onto Bucky’s flesh wrist. It pissed Barnes off enough that he kicked the guy in the balls. While he was doubled over a shadow from behind came and kicked his back, sending the man face first into the ground. He didn’t get up.

Bucky looked at the shadow and saw it wipe away blood from his nose.

“You okay?” Bucky asked.

The shadow nodded, taking a step into the dim streetlight. The guy was about seventeen, rough looking, built solidly, with prickly red hair that looked like it was in the in between stage of buzz cut and close cropped. “Okay enough.” He shoved his hands in his pants pockets. He didn’t have on a coat. “Thanks, though.”

Bucky was sure there were bursts of bruises and blood hiding beneath the guy’s clothes. He was limping when he started walking away.

“I know a place that you could get patched up at,” Bucky offered, not sure why he felt so bad for this stranger.

The guy looked at him curiously, perhaps asking the same question. He shrugged. “They charge?”

Bucky shook his head.

“They ask questions?”

Again Bucky shook his head but paused a second. “Maybe a name.”

The guy shrugged. “Charlie.” He took a step forward. “Remind me to buy you a drink.”

“I doubt you’re old enough,” Bucky muttered, taking off in the direction of Red Street. Charlie seemed to hesitate when they got closer to the street, eyes darting as if scanning the area for danger. “Something wrong?” James asked.

Charlie opened his mouth to answer, but it died on his busted lip.

They only got a few more steps in before a familiar voice called out, <Who’s your friend, Barnes?>

Bucky mentally swore as Mikhail and Konstantin met him and the stranger under a buzzing streetlamp. He opened his mouth, lie ready on his tongue, but Charlie took off a split second later.

He darted out of the light, but Konstantin was faster – not sporting bruised ribs really – and caught the kid in a terribly crushing hold. He let out a strangled cry as Konstantin no doubt dug into his aching ribs.

Mikhail gripped Bucky’s shoulder and turned him so they were face-to-face.

<Want to explain why you have our thief, _mudak_? >

Bucky narrowed his brows at Mikhail, shrugging harshly out of his grip. <What makes him _your_ thief?” >

Mikhail did not look impressed. <Don’t pretend like you don’t who this is, Barnes. Or did you honestly think you could turn in this _govniuk_ without our knowing? > He leaned in, breath reeking of cigarette smoke. <Trying to win back some favor with the Czar, hmm?>

Bucky rolled his eyes. <I don’t need any favor from the Czar. Unlike you two, I don’t mess up his requests.>

Mikhail sneered and shoved Bucky’s shoulder, making an effort to strike the metal one. He barked an order to Konstantin to bring Charlie to the Czar’s residence. Bucky followed, because no way in hell were these two idiots going to hurt this poor guy, thief or no.

Mikhail pounded on the door while Konstantin continued to restrain the kid, whose eyes were dark and hard in their glare towards Bucky, no doubt blaming him for leading them into a trap. Although, to be fair, the Czar’s place was their destination. Just the upstairs room of one Natasha and not the stoop of the man himself. Speaking of.

Ivan wretched open the door with a scowl, unimpressed with such interruption to his night. <What do you want?> he practically yelled.

To their credit, Mikhail and Konstantin didn’t flinch.

<We caught the thief, the one conning the Ukrainians out of our money.>

So that’s who this was. Bucky felt his pulse pick up. This was not going to end well for this guy. And maybe it was the familiarity of pulling a scrawny, sorry ass out of an alley fight, but suddenly he felt protective, responsible.

<You mean I caught him,> Bucky supplied. Maybe if he could get the kid released into his care – for punishment or whatever he was sentenced – then at least he’d have control over it. Could form an escape plan.

Mikhail rolled his eyes. <We’ve been trailing him for weeks. He’s a slippery one.>

“Please, I didn’t do nothing,” Charlie pleaded.

Ivan frowned at the kid. He leaned in menacingly, accent thick and threatening. “You stole from Red Street, from Czar.” A beat. “From me.”

The kid swallowed.

<Perhaps he didn’t know it wasn’t their money they were playing with,> Bucky cut in.

Mikhail shot him a glare, but the Czar remained unmoved.

“Please, let me go. I didn’t mean to do anything. I-“

The Czar struck Charlie’s face. Bucky nearly lost it, especially taking in the sight of his eyes. This was definitely not the first time he’d been hit like that.

“You not talk.”

<What would you like us to do with him?> Konstantin asked from his spot behind the struggling teenager.

The Czar considered this for a moment, keeping his eyes on the kid. “Where money?” he asked.

Charlie hung his head. “I don’t have it. I had some debts to pay off so the money went there.”

The Czar did not like this answer. He took the kid’s hand in his and began to bend his wrist backwards. Charlie held back his scream for a long as he could, but it eventually burst forth. The sound of bone snapping was lost in the howl of pain. Bucky’s body was screaming for him to act, to do _something_. But what?

Once the kid’s screaming was under control, the Czar continued. “You count yourself lucky. Thieves get cut off hands in old village.”

<What’s going on down here?> a new voice asked. Bucky peeked around Ivan to see Natasha. _Fuck_.

Ivan grumbled at her, <You should be asleep, Natalia.>

<It’s hard to sleep with all the noise,> she shot back. She finished descending the stairs, eyes scanning over the scene. She frowned deeply when she saw Bucky. But what was weirder was the look that came to her green gaze when it landed on Charlie. Bucky couldn’t place it.

<Go back to bed, Natalia. This doesn’t concern you,> Ivan ordered. But Natasha didn’t heed him, instead approaching the door and the kid who was desperately trying to cradle his injured wrist while still in Konstantin’s hold.

“You are the conman swindling the Ukrainians out of their money, yes?” she asked him.

He was slow to nod, but it happened.

Natasha turned back to her uncle. <If I recall I made important decisions on this case. It is my business.>

Ivan smirked. <You want in on this, little girl?> He reached around behind the door, pulling out a pistol and offering it to Natasha. <Then you shall be the one to eliminate this problem.>

Nat crossed her arms. <Uncle, you are missing a vital opportunity.>

Ivan shoved her aside, pointing the muzzle of the gun at Charlie’s head. He closed his eyes, accepting his death far too easily for Bucky’s comfort. <You will need guts to run his empire, Natalia.>

<Shouldn’t I also need wisdom?>

Ivan stayed still. Nat took that as her chance.

<He conned the Ukrainians out of our money. Easy fix. We stop paying the Ukrainians, farm the work out to the Sokovians, and send this swindler back to the Ukrainians and con them out of their own money. They lose twice. And what this thief does make, he will give to us as payment for letting him live.>    

Ivan kept the gun pointed at the teenager’s head but made no move to pull the trigger. His eyes showed the war raging in his mind as he thought Natasha’s proposal over. Bucky felt the muscles in his legs tighten in anticipation of leaping forward to protect this scrawny kid.

But Ivan eventually pulled the gun away from the kid’s temple and tossed it back to the table beside the door. He turned to his niece with narrowed eyes and cold, hard movements. <Your hands are too soft,> he growled. <I’ll callous them up yet.> He moved towards the stairs, barking orders for Mikhail and Konstantin to leave the thief there for Natalia to deal with. <He’s your problem.>

He left. The two thugs left. Bucky stayed, helping Charlie into the house and sitting him down at the kitchen table. Nat had already fetched a med kit and using the stove light to brighten up the dingy space, she prepared to do what she could to heal him.

Bucky sat across from the stranger. “I told you I knew a place that would fix you up,” he mumbled.

Charlie shot him an icy glare that Bucky could completely understand. The kid’s wrist was broken, his ribs bruised, a nice shiner forming on his face, blood dripped from his split lip.

Natasha gently took the kid’s wrist and began wrapping it in a tight bandage. It really could’ve used a cast, but she didn’t have any of those materials. Maybe the kid could find a place to have it done? “You’ll need a doctor,” she muttered. She doubted the guy would actually try. Because she knew this stranger. He had very familiar eyes.

“This is Charlie.” Bucky introduced, trying to keep the kid from focusing on his snapped and aching bones.

Natasha frowned. Bucky noticed.

<You okay, Nat?>

She didn’t look at him.

“Natasha?”

She didn’t answer him and instead looked Charlie in the eye. “That’s not your name.”

Charlie’s brows narrowed. “Name I’ve gone by for a long time.”

“While in Juvie?”

His mouth dropped open a little. “How’d you…?”

“You have the same eyes.” She took in his expression and added, “Barney.”

Bucky looked at her curiously. “You know this guy, Nat?”

She went back to the med kit and fished out some antibacterial cream. “Not exactly.” But she didn’t offer any more information.

Bucky studied the stranger carefully. Eyes. She’d mentioned eyes. Charlie – or Barney – had blue eyes. Then again, maybe green. Or gray. Wait. He knew those eyes.

Barney hadn’t said anything in regards to the new name, electing to keep quiet and let this strange girl nurse his wounds. She was pretty, but far too young. Maybe around twelve or thirteen. Like-

“Clint,” Bucky and Barney said at the same time.

Barney’s head whipped over to face Bucky, glaring. He jerked his hand from Natasha’s grip, ignoring the shot of pain that went through his whole arm. “Listen. I don’t know what the hell happened here tonight, and I honestly don’t care. But let’s get one thing straight. As far as I’m concerned, little Clinton Francis Barton is not my brother. He went and sold me out, got himself a new dad and everything. So if this,” he pointed to his wrist, “has anything to do with him, count me out.”

Natasha sat there motionless, scarily similar to how her uncle had done minutes ago. Barney didn’t offer his hand back, but he seemed to calm down, adrenaline giving way to pain.

“The bandage on your wrist is because of Clint. The broken bones are all on you,” Natasha explained stoically.

Barney grimaced, either from pain or her statement, she couldn’t tell. But he didn’t pull away when she reached to apply a butterfly bandage to a cut on his forehead. After a moment he asked, “So what did happen?”

“You work for the Russians now,” Nat answered. “What you con from the Ukrainians we’ll take as payment for keeping you alive.”

“Lucky me,” Barney mumbled. “Not like I have rent or anything.”

“You can stay with me,” Bucky offered. He put a thread of kindness into his voice but it was mostly false. After such an outburst renouncing his own brother, Bucky got the feeling this selfish, weaseling conman was going to be trouble. He’d need to keep an eye on him. Because here, in the greasy light of the kitchen he could see this scrawny, beat-up kid was missing something in his gaze. Something the other skinny little ass he used to pull out of alley fights had. This wasn’t Steve. It was just more self-centered filth on the street.  

“James, could you get the arnica oil from my room, please?”

Bucky hesitated, not wanting to leave Nat alone with this guy. But he knew she could take care of herself if he tried something. After all, he’d taught her how.

Nat watched Bucky’s retreating form out of the corner of her eye. Once she was sure he was clear she leaned in towards Barney. “I know there’s bad blood between you and Clint. But here’s the catch, I don’t care.” She dabbed at some blood on Barney’s knuckles. “I need someone to watch him for me, make sure he’s okay, safe.”

Barney rolled his eyes. “What the hell did he get into?”

“Same as you incidentally. Red Street. The Russians. Although to be fair, he doesn’t know it.”

Barney frowned. “What if I say no, skip town, blow this popsicle stand?”

“Good luck with that. And if you find a way out of here, let me know what it is. I’ll follow in a heartbeat.”

A look came to Barney’s gaze that Natasha had seen a million times on a different but so familiar pair of eyes. “Someone’s hurting you,” he guessed.

She frowned. “Not exactly.” She moved to Barney’s other hand. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, I know you don’t care about your brother.”

“You got that right.” But it sounded too defensive, even to his own ears.

“But I need you to do this, Barney. I need to know that he’s safe.” She put the rag down and pinned him with her gaze. “You owe me this. I quite literally saved your life.” She flicked her gaze over to the table by the door with the pistol still on it.

Barney didn’t need to follow her eyes to know she was right. She had saved him. “Fine. I’ll spy on him. Happy?”

She nodded once. “One more thing. This stays between us. No one, and I mean no one, is to know about this.” She heard footsteps coming down the stairs. “And that includes James.”      

Bucky appeared in the kitchen and handed the oil to Nat. He knew they’d been talking, whispering. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

After taping up Barney’s ribs and giving him some Advil to take the edge off, Bucky led him to his place up the street. It was a shabby apartment with almost no furniture. But there was running water and the Czar didn’t charge too much for rent.

As soon as Barney was inside, Bucky shut the door behind them and stared the conman down. “Listen, punk.”

Barney didn’t look amused at the name.

“You hurt Natasha and I’ll end you, got it?”

“Relax, chrome bones. I’m a thief. I take; I don’t brake. Okay?” He stood there for a moment, a little awkwardly with this injured bones. “She really does care about him, doesn’t she?”

“He was her best friend.”

“Was?”

“We’re not allowed to have those anymore.” He pushed past Barney, pointing out the couch as the place for him to sleep and went to his room. He pulled off his shirt and ran his flesh hand over his metal arm, hating it with every inch of shiny metal he touched. The Czar had taken so much. But that was the price. To keep Steve safe.

To keep everyone safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about that to thicken the plot? 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and Kudos-ing. Again, I will try to respond to comments but I make no promises as time is a fickle thing. Thank you again and I hope you enjoy the update.


	25. Chapter 25

**Scene 25**

It wasn’t new. In fact the feeling had gotten old really quickly. Clint hated being the new kid. There were questions and stares and everyone trying to either be overly polite or assert some kind of dominance. He’d been the new kid too many times. And once again he found himself in that position.

But it was different this time around. This wasn’t at a school or a boy’s home or an orphanage. This was at someone’s house. And this wasn’t a large group of students mixed in with hundreds of other students, or a barrage of parentless children. This was a group of six kids all about his age. And Ms. May. She’d told him to call her just May, but that felt strange.

The whole set up was a little strange too. They only met twice a week at May’s house where they went through the first half of their classes on Tuesday and the second half on Thursday. The classes were longer, ninety minutes each instead of fifty, but Clint then had the rest of the week to do his homework.

He liked that arrangement. It allowed him extra time on the harder subjects like reading, and to move along on the easier ones like math. Lucky liked the set up too, since Clint was home more often and could play with him in the snow.

But being the new kid was still being the new kid. Everyone seemed to have their best friend, their partner: Leo and Jemma, and Bobbi and Lance, and Skye and Lincoln. Clint was odd man out.

It wasn’t that the others didn’t include him; Bobbi saved him a seat at lunch, Lance talked with him about baseball, Leo and Jemma were interested in learning ASL. Skye and Lincoln tended to keep to themselves. Clint didn’t really mind. He remembered what that was like, how he and Tasha would be an island in the swarm of the other boys Coulson had taken in.

He still really missed her.

“What’s got you looking glum?” Bobbi asked, sidling up next to him on the low branch he was sitting on in May’s back yard tree.

Clint shrugged.

Bobbi nodded. Lincoln was playing hacky sack with Lance down below. “I bet you’d be good at that,” she tried. “Wanna play?”

Clint shook his head. “Not today.”

Bobbi nodded and looked ready to climb down, but stopped. “It’s tough being the new kid,” she said quietly.

Clint turned to face her, trying to catch her words better.

“That was me,” she went on, “before you got here.” She pulled her scarf a little closer. “I was lucky, though. Lance recognized pretty early on that I needed a friend.” She gave a small smile. “And now I’m returning the favor.”

Clint raised a brow.

“Oh don’t give me that. You’re lonely. It’s okay to admit it. All of us here were lonely at one point. Like take a look at Jemma and Leo. Inseparable, right? But they weren’t always best pals. In fact Jemma didn’t like the idea of Leo being better at science than her and they practically competed every class to see who could answer more questions. But then they got to know each other and found out that Jemma likes biology and chemistry more than what Leo likes, which is physics and engineering. See? Both nerds but with different goals. Once they figured that out, besties for life.”

“What about Skye and Lincoln?”

“Tentative friends at first, legendary arguments, but it worked out.”

“Like you and Lance worked out?”

Bobbi tilted her head, raised a brow in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Clint shrugged. “He likes you.”

“What? No, he-”

“Trust me, Bobbi, he likes you.”

Bobbi pretended to pull at the stitching in her glove. “What makes you say that?”

“Just… trust me. I know the look.”

“You-” Bobbi stopped. She looked at Clint carefully, studied him. It hit her. “Oh.” She wanted to ask who it was, who’d been on the receiving end of his look, but thought better of it. It wasn’t her business. It did help explain some of the loneliness, though.

They were quiet for a moment, watching Lance and Lincoln kick the knitted beanbag between them. It fell in the snow when Lincoln passed it to Lance. Skye laughed from the sidelines where she was making a snowman with Leo and Jemma.

Bobbi tapped Clint’s arm, getting his attention. “C’mon. Let’s show ‘em how it’s done.”

“Maybe later, I-”

“Clint Barton, you can sulk later. Now let’s get down there and show them how it’s really played.”

Clint grinned despite himself. He liked Bobbi’s forwardness. And he had to admit the game of hacky sack was a lot of fun. And the pat on the back from Lance and the “you’re really good at this” from Lincoln made him feel like he was glowing.

…

Lance lined up a shot, balancing the lump of compacted snow in his gloved hand. To his right, Leo was ducked behind the snow wall they’d built, using his little homemade device to scoop up and shape snow into perfect snowballs. The boys shared a glance before Lance risked poking his head out to see where he was throwing the snowball. It landed over the opposite snow fort wall and an excited screech carried on the chilled breeze.

Lance pumped and arm and fist bumped with Leo. Bobbi was out. He watched her sidle over to the sidelines, arms folded and a glare directed at him. He grinned back, gave her a wave, and was immediately hit with a glob of snow and slush from the opposing team. Bobbi laughed the entire duration of Lance’s walk of shame.

It had been his idea, a boys vs. girls snowball fight. The girls had won the first two, but had agreed to make it a best three out of five. They were currently tied. Lance had really thought they had it in the bag what with Leo’s snowball maker and Lincoln’s top-notch distractions. But the girls had Bobbi’s excellent combat, Jemma’s bio-metric reader phone app, and Skye’s sniping abilities.

Lincoln got hit and joined Lance on the sidelines looking a bit sheepish.

“Skye’s been working on her aim,” he commented.

Bobbi smiled. “Pays to have a sniper.”

Lance nodded but kept his face blank.

Suddenly a snowball streaked from the top of the evergreen tree in the back part of the yard striking Jemma in the back of the head. Leo tucked himself tighter behind the protection of the snow wall. Skye began scanning the tree a few feet away from her, searching diligently for any movement. She didn’t see any until there was a snowball smacking her dead center in the chest. Lance whooped and Lincoln joined him as the pair ran out to meet up with Leo and exchange high-fives.

“It worked!” Lance bellowed.

“There was a plan?” Bobbi asked skeptical.

Lincoln nodded. “Stall until Clint had enough time to get into position.” He pointed to the tree that the blonde boy was currently shimmying down from. “Sniper to snipe a sniper.”

Skye rolled her eyes but sent a grin Clint’s way as he joined them. “Gotta hand it to you, newbie,” she started, “you’re a hellova shot.”

He grinned. “You should see me do archery.” He rubbed some warmth into his hands. “They don’t call me Hawkeye for nothing.”

Lance laughed loudly at that. “Clint ‘Hawkeye’ Barton. Marksman and strategist extraordinaire!”

“Alright,” a voice called from the back porch steps. The seven students turned to face May. “Recess is over. Time for science.”

Jemma, Leo, and Bobbi dashed for the steps, leaving the rest to trail behind.

…

There was something different about the clips and short films May showed to accompany lessons. It took Clint a moment to figure it out, and once he did, he knew he was the reason.

All the videos had closed captions.

He wasn’t sure if Phil had mentioned something, or if May had researched it on her own. So when he found himself alone with May waiting for Phil to pick him up (he’d been switched over from a cast to a boot for his leg) he figured it was the best time to satisfy his curiosity.

“How did you know to add subtitles to the videos you show in class?”

May looked down at him, blinked once. “Does it help?”

Clint nodded.

“To be honest I’ve always tried to find captioned videos. Some people learn better when they can both read the text and hear the audio. Plus transcripts work well for anyone who might need to go back and look for information. It helps keep others focused as well, letting their minds narrow in on the words rather than space out at the images.”

Again Clint nodded. Phil pulled up to the driveway, giving a small wave to May from the driver’s seat. Clint turned back to May for a moment. “Thanks for doing it, though. It really helps.”

She smiled gently. “I do what I can to help everyone learn. No one should have to sacrifice knowledge just because they were never offered assistance.”

Clint bobbed his head in agreement then rushed down to clamber into the car next to Phil. He answered the usual questions about how his day was and what all he did, but the back of his mind was spinning. He’d thought of Natasha when May had mentioned sacrificing education. He’d thought about how they used to help each other, signing so they other one would know. It made his chest feel tight to think about her.

And he wondered momentarily if she ever thought of him.

…

From the front seat of a stolen car, Barney Barton watched his little brother bounce into the passenger seat of the now familiar vehicle. He studied Clint’s happy expression and made a mental note of it for his report. The kid had seemed to relax and become part of the homeschool group pretty easily. He got along with the other boys, played nice with the girls, let the nerds help him with schoolwork, taught them all a few signs. It was the perfect situation. The boy was happy.

And Barney was jealous.

Clint had a family. He had friends. Hell, he even had some crazy Russian girl stalking him by proxy. He had so many people who cared about him, who would miss him. And it fucking hurt to think about.

Barn had no one. His only contacts were either dead, thought _he_ was dead, paid off, in debt to, or some crazy redheaded girl and her friend/his roommate. And even then, Bucky was…cold. Something shitty had definitely happened to the guy. Barn figured it had something to do with his metal arm. And probably the vicious Russian gang they were now somehow involved with.

The car took off down the road and Barn started the engine. He didn’t miss the quick glance down the street by the teacher lady, and filed away another note to find a different parking spot. He didn’t like his chances with the woman; she looked like she could put him in the ground in three seconds flat.

He turned up the heat and began driving back to his place with the intention of a hot shower and maybe a nap. Aw, who was he kidding, there was no way he’d be that lucky. He was still paying off the Russians and needed grifting money to do so.

He turned down a street that the Italians owned and rubbed his hands together for heat. He’d need quick fingers, and quick fingers needed blood flow.

He pulled his stocking cap over a fading bruise from a previous altercation to hide any evidence of an angry customer. That had been rule number one from Trick: impress your audience, get them wrapped up in you, show them you are invincible, and they’ll come running, coins in hand.

But the street was near dead and those on it didn’t seem keen on playing cards. He checked his watch and let out a sigh, watching it cloud up and float away on early moonlight. He needed to meet with Natasha and give her his report.

He left the stolen car there after taking and dumping the license plate, and walked back to Red Street.

“Well,” she asked once he was settled in behind her uncle’s house.

“I don’t know what to tell you. He’s laughing and playing with the home school nerds. He’s getting along fine. Has friends and family. He’s happy, Natasha.”

She crossed her arms, eyes downcast at the snow.

“Isn’t that what you want?”

She bit her lip and after a beat mumbled. “It should be.”

 _Jesus,_ Barney thought. _I really am stuck in hell. Like, middle school movie musical level of hell._

Natasha straightened up, putting her game face back on. “Thank you, Barney. You’re doing a good job.”

“Yeah, well, not like I got a choice, huh?”

She frowned but didn’t say anything, turning to go back inside her uncle’s house.

Barney made his way to his place, hands in pockets, mind already in bed, when two shadows joined his steps in the snow.

“Con Man meet with little lady,” the one on his right slurred.

“Con Man make secret meeting,” the left joined. “What about, Con Man?”

“Yeah, Con Man, what about?”

“None of your _chert_ business.”

“Ooh, Con Man think he one of us. Knows little swear word.”

“Is that what you think, Con Man?”

Barney stopped walking, squared his shoulders, balled his fists. “You’ll want to leave me alone now.”

“No, no, Con Man. You one of us.” The one on the left slung his arm over Barney’s shoulders. “I am Konstantin. My friend, Mikhail,” he pointed to the other man.

Barn shrugged out of his grip. “I already know you. You’re the fuckers that brought me in.” He showed off his splinted wrist. “Or do you not remember?”

“We remember, Con Man. We know you get money from others for us.”

“But that not enough, right, Con Man. You need money to get out,” Mikhail added.

Barn glared at them, but kept listening.

“We know you spy for little lady.”

“Keep tabs on blonde.”

“We want little lady gone. Think blonde means something.”

“Is special.”

“We get blonde, we have leverage over little lady.”

Barn felt his heart picking up speed. He didn’t like where this was going.

“You bring us blonde, we get you money. Hmm?”

“Enough to skip town. No Russians follow.”

Barney kept perfectly still. “Let’s say I say yes. What happens to the blonde?”

Konstantin shrugged. “Is up to little lady.”

Mikhail patted him on the shoulder. “You think about it, yes?”

Barn blinked slowly. His heart was pounding in his chest.

“If you do want out of Red Street, bring blonde to Stravinsky’s tomorrow night.”

“Midnight.”

And with the next gust of winter wind they were gone. And Barney’s hands were shaking. Could he do this?

Could he afford not to?

He’d be owned by the Russians for the rest of his life. And all it would take would be to bring Clint in. It’s not like Natasha would ever let anything happen to him, so he wouldn’t be in danger. And what did Barney care? Clint wasn’t his brother, not when he had his new family.

There was no way he’d ever make enough on the streets to escape the Russians. He was a prisoner here, and he’d had enough of being imprisoned.

All they wanted was Clint and he’d be free.

And to Barney, that didn’t sound like a half bad trade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's call this one a scrapbook chapter since it was kind of just bits and pieces. But it brings us to the turning point.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: for threats and gunplay

**Scene 26**

Clint threw the tennis ball towards a bank of trees and grinned as Lucky kicked up fresh snow chasing after it. Steve chuckled from where he sat on a park bench, sketchbook in hand. It was a nice day despite the cold. The sun was out and the temperature warmer than it had been in a while. Clint had decided Lucky deserved an outing to the park. Steve had come along, needing to get out of the house and Tony’s constant prepping for his supposed date with Pepper. None of the boys could really believe it. Steve still thought he’d cheated and had almost convinced Bruce into searching for evidence to support that theory. But the younger boy had shrugged and simply said, “watch,” as he’d handed Tony one dinner plate at a time. Tony washed all of them, mind – and mouth – preoccupied with trying to remember the ratings for restaurants in town.

So with Tony absently doing the dishes, and Thor on the verge of convincing Jane to go to prom, Bruce was the only one who “lost” the bet. But Steve had his suspicions. Bruce had been singing in the shower a lot more lately and the blonde suspected that had to do with Valentine’s Day approaching.

Lucy brought back the ball and Clint lobbed it again. Steve watched, trying to memorize the lines of Clint’s arm so he could get it sketched correctly. He was getting better at action poses. And Clint was getting more force behind his throwing arm.

It hadn’t escaped Steve’s notice that Clint seemed to be growing up and filling out some more. He seemed happier too. It was like going to the home school group had saved him. He knew Clint liked it, the twice a week school days, time at home to do assignments, being there for Phil, playing with Lucky. It was a better fit for his learning style. It let him move. It let him excel.

But there were still nights when Steve would here a sigh from Clint’s bed and glance over to see the kid staring at a snapshot of him and Natasha. He wasn’t sure what had happened there, didn’t dare ask. But something twisted in his stomach when he thought about that day he’d seen her with Bucky. Steve wanted to tell Clint he knew what it was like to lose your best friend. But saying that would mean admitting that Bucky was gone. And Steve wasn’t ready to do that.

Clint threw the ball again and watched Lucky chase after it. The dog disappeared over a small hill, kicking up snow. Clint waited for the mutt to come bounding back up, but after a minute or two, he didn’t. Steve and Clint exchanged a look.

“Probably found a squirrel,” Steve suggested.

Clint shrugged and took off down the embankment with a lazy, “Be right back,” to Steve.

The trees thickened up in the small valley. Clint scanned the snow for Lucky’s trail, following the path into the trees. He heard Lucky bark and a grumbled response from someone. The hair on the back of Clint’s neck stood on end.

“Lucky?” he called out. The dog barked again, more to the left than straight ahead. Clint turned, took a few steps, then felt the air leave his lungs.

He couldn’t believe it. It had to be impossible. Familiar blue eyes looked away from Lucky and up to Clint’s face. A slow smile spread out over a lightly freckled face. And red hair, ruddy red hair caught the last ripples of sunlight through the bare trees.

“Hey, sport,” he greeted.

Lucky walked over to Clint, licking his hand and dropping the tennis ball. But Clint’s eyes never left the face before him. “Barn?” he squeaked. “How?”

The older boy waved him off. “A few favors, a few payments. Good behavior wasn’t going to get me out early, that’s for sure.” Barney grinned at his own joke but Clint still didn’t move. The hair on the back of his neck was still standing at attention.

“Barn…I-”

“Stop looking at me like I’m a ghost, Clinton.” He took a step closer. Clint instinctively flinched. It broke something inside of Barney to see his brother react that way. Especially since the last time had been because of their father. But Barney always had been told he was a chip off the old block, the spitting image of his old man.

He hated that.

“Clint? You okay?” Steve’s voice carried over from the top of the hill. Clint whirled around, looking up through the branches.

“Lie,” Barn told him.

Clint glared, brows narrowed. Barn shot him a look that Clint could feel corroding his bones. “Fine, Steve. Ball’s stuck in a tree.”

Barn grinned and Clint felt his blood turn hot. He clenched and unclenched his fists. “What do you want, Barn?”

Barn feigned being hurt. “Can’t a brother just want to see his only living family?”

Clint folded his arms over his chest. Lucky wined, sensing the rising tension. “What do you want?”

Barn frowned, sighing. “Never could pull one over on you. Those stupid big blue eyes catch everything, don’t they?” He pushed some snow with his boot. “I need to talk to you, Clint. Privately.”

Clint’s jaw tightened, but he stayed quiet.

“It’s important.”

“Do you need any help?” Steve called again, voice echoing slightly off the empty forest.

“No. Almost got it,” Clint hollered back. He returned his gaze to Barn. “What do you mean ‘important’?”

Barn bobbed his head side to side. “Not saying life or death, but…”

Clint’s frown deepened. Every instinct was telling him to run. But this was his brother, like it or not, and that alone meant he owed him something. Right?

Clint dropped his arms, bending to pick up Lucky’s ball. “When do you want to meet?”

“Tonight. Midnight. Sneak out and I’ll pick you up.”

The alarms in Clint’s head were ringing. “Secret meeting? Really?”

“Just like when we were kids,” Barn tried. But Clint wasn’t buying it. Barn softened his features, pulling out the tools of manipulation. “I went looking for Trick the other day.”

Clint’s big blue eyes began to water before looking down towards the snow, blinking back the stinging tears. “Take it you know.”

Barn nodded. “I just really need to talk, Clint. Please?”

The alarms were still ringing. But Clint had never been all that great at focusing on noise, preferring silence. And Barn’s silent begging was loud enough to drown out the bells and unease. So Clint nodded. Once. Sealing the deal.

Barn grinned then disappeared through the trees.

Clint walked back up the hill, Lucky trailing behind him.

“You okay?” Steve asked once they crested the top. “You look kind of…”

Clint shrugged. And at the action, Clint wasn’t the only one with alarms going off in his head.

…

Sneaking out of the house wasn’t difficult. Phil had never done anything to the tree that still sat outside Clint and Steve’s bedroom window. It was strange to think that it had been the first thing Clint had seen all those years ago. And now he was using it to slip away from the place he never thought he’d have to leave.

He’d be back. He knew that.

But it felt like he was running away. Maybe it was because running away with Barney was just something he’d always told himself would happen one day. He wasn’t sure he wanted that now.

A car was running without its lights on in the middle of the street. Clint pulled his coat tighter and made his way over, opening up the door and sliding in. His heart was beating hard in his chest and the faintest tremor was in his hands.

“Glad you could make it, sport,” Barney greeted.

“Should I even ask about the car?” Clint answered, not looking over at his brother.

“Probably better you didn’t.” The ruddy haired teen grinned slyly. “Don’t ask about the license either.” He put the car into drive and slowly took off down the street, flipping on the lights once they were at the end and took a left.

“Where are we going?” Clint asked.

Barn answered with a shrug. “Just for a drive.”

Clint glanced back his home receding from view.

“Don’t worry, Clinton. You’ll be back before morning.”

But Clint didn’t miss the way Barn’s voice lightly wavered. His heartbeat picked up speed.

“What did you want to talk about?”

Barn didn’t reply.

“If it’s about Trick all I can say is he died. I don’t know when.”

“I don’t want to talk about Trick.”

Clint bit his lip, looked out the window. The houses were familiar; it was the route Phil took to the school.

“What’s it like?” Barn finally asked.

“What?”

“Them.” He jerked his head backwards. “Phil and the other guys. What’s it like to have them around all the time, telling you want to do, getting in your business?”

“It’s not like that,” Clint started to defend. He sighed and looked out the window. “Phil’s the best, Barn. He adopted me, took in Steve and Tony and Bruce.” He went quiet before mumbling. “He’d take in you too.”

“Sorry, sport, but escaped juvenile delinquent and foster kid don’t play well together.”

They drove in silence for a long time. Clint started fidgeting, feeling antsy and even a little sick. Something wasn’t right. One glance out the window at the passing neighborhoods had him realizing just how much trouble he was in.

“Barn…”

Barney stopped the car at the corner of Red Street and Smith at a little dive bar named Stravinsky’s.

“Why are we stop-”

Clint turned to face his brother but was greeted by the yawning cavern of the end of a gun barrel. “Barn?” His voice cracked on the end.

“You’re in one hell of a mess, Clint,” Barney answered, voice hard and distant. “And somehow you’ve dragged me into it too. So here’s how this is going to go: we’re going to get out this car, I’m going to hand you over, get my money, and leave town before the hour’s up.”

Clint barely registered the betrayal. He knew he should feel shattered that his brother, his own brother, was pointing a gun at his head and going on about handing him over for money. But it didn’t surprise him like it should have. He never wanted to admit it, but Clint had always known in his deepest nightmares and darkest thoughts that meeting up again with Barney would involve a gun and duplicity.

So he sat there. Not moving. If anything underwhelmed by this turn of events. It hurt. But Barney had been associated with hurt for so long it didn’t even feel real.

“I mean it, Clint. Get out of the car.”

And that statement, the look in Barn’s eyes, told Clint immediately that the gun in his brother’s hand would never fire a shot. Barn was many things, but a cold-blooded killer wasn’t one.

“Put the gun down, Barn.”

“Shut up!” Barney swallowed hard. “I’m serious, Clint. I’m in deep here. These guys offered me a deal. I intend to keep it.”

Clint looked out the window. The light from the streetlamp behind him cast his reflection onto the glass. He could see the purple scarf around his neck, the one he’d convinced Phil into buying during his first winter with the man. “What did you do?”

Barn scoffed. “None of your business.” He pushed the gun closer; Clint could feel its presence at the back of his head.

“You said I was in a mess, that you’re in deep.” He twisted to look at his brother, feeling the cold of the barrel brush his skin. “Least you could do is bring me up to speed.”

“I ain’t stalling. We’re late as it is.”

Clint locked his eyes on his brother’s intense gaze. He saw sadness there, and hurt. He saw years of containment and having to fend for himself in Juvie. He saw bruises and anger leftover from their childhood. He saw remorse for a friendship that, twisted as it was, had ended without him knowing. And most of all he saw desperation. Barney had always looked exactly like their father, a ‘chip off the old block.’ But he had their mother’s eyes. They both did. And in that moment he saw them silently pleading for this to stop being his life, his reality. Just like hers.

His voice was barely a whisper, barely audible even with his hearing aids as he asked, “What did you do, Barney?”

The gun didn’t leave but it rattled as Barn’s hand shook. “It’s all your fault, Clint.” He pulled in a breath, face contorting with old anger. “It always has been. Jackson Parker, Juvie, now some stupid Russian gang. It’s all you.”

Clint raised a brow. “Russian gang?” The rest could wait. Clint needed information.

“Red Street. Their little redheaded empress in training has a thing for you. Asked me to watch out for you in case one of the gang members took a swing at ya or something.”

“You’ve been following me.” It wasn’t a question. Clint had felt eyes on him for a while. He’d chalked it up to Phil or May or one of the homeschool kids just keeping a watch out, but now it made more sense. Maybe a lot of it made more sense.

“Natasha,” he breathed. The engine had been off long enough to have the word swirling in a cloud of cold air as it left his mouth. He looked over at Barn. “She hired you to watch me?”

He didn’t answer but his eyes softened.

“Which means she pushed me away to keep me safe.” The pieces started clicking. “Meaning I was in danger. Which means she’s in danger.” The gun went largely unnoticed as Clint stared down his brother, begging in his eyes. “Barn, please. We have to help Tasha.”

Barney swallowed hard again, his hand not leaving its position on the pistol. Clint’s big blue eyes were desperate, wild, hopeful in a way that Barney nearly envied. Everything the kid had been through and he still had that last little glimmer in his eyes.

But why should he care? Clint had let him rot in a cell while he’d gone and gotten himself a new family. Why should he help out some silly middle school crush? He had his own problems. Problems he could solve if Clint would just get out of the damn car.

And then it dropped. Clint opened his mouth and pulled him from the edge he’d been riding since the day they entered the boy’s home.

“You’re not Dad, Barn.”

“What makes you so sure?” His voice sounded wet and echoey. Hollow like a cave.

“You’d have shot me already. Or hit me in the head, dragged me unconscious into that bar.” He paused, continuing to stare into his brother’s eyes. “You’re fighting this.”

Barn closed his eyes heavily for a moment. There was a knot in his gut that had had him feeling ill since the Russian goons had approached him about this arrangement.

“Put down the gun, Barn.”

“I need the _money_ , Clint.” He wanted to be angry, got so much power from it. But he’d been angry for so long and was still at the mercy of others far too often for his liking.

“Money to disappear, right?”

Barn found himself nodding, eyes closing again.

“To escape Red Street?”

Another nod.

“What if there was no Red Street, Barn?”

He looked up at his younger brother, saw wisdom and determination that shouldn’t have looked so at home on a thirteen-year-old.

Clint leaned forward. “Help me save her. We get rid of Red Street and Tasha won’t be in trouble, in danger anymore. And neither will you.”

Barn hated the stringing tears trying to make their way into his eyes. But Clint was right, was so damn right. It was an alternative solution, one he’d never have been able to see. That boy’s eyesight was incredible. Those goddamn blue eyes.

He dropped the gun.

Clint let out a small sigh.

“How the hell do we do that, Clint?” Barn murmured.

A slow, small, sly smirk slipped onto Clint’s face. “Exactly how Trick taught us. We con these suckers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh it's on!   
> I'm aiming to wrap this story up next week so you should be getting 4 chapters next Sunday. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and Kudos-ing. You all rock!!!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the beginning of the end, everyone. 
> 
> This chapter and the ones that follow are a bit unique in their format. But I wanted to capture that thing they do in movies where they intercut the planning/meeting scene with the action so everything can be explained as it's happening (like in the 2010 version of A-Team.) The scene cuts are denoted with a horizontal rule line. 
> 
> also WARNING! This chapter contains violence, child endangerment, language, and mob interactions.

**Scene 27**

Clint climbed in through the window, unsurprised to see Steve waiting there, arms crossed over his chest. Tony, Bruce, and Thor’s presence was a bit more unexpected.

“Cutting it close there, Clint,” Steve said sternly.

Clint shrugged, turning to help his brother through the window and into the room. “Made it in time.”

Barn raised a brow. “They knew?”

Clint shot him a look. “You said we needed to talk in private, not that I couldn’t tell anyone. Besides, there was no way Steve here was going to just let me slip out the window. Guy has bad behavior radar.”

Clint turned back to his foster brothers. “Guys, this is Barney. Barn, that’s Steve, Tony, Bruce, and Thor.” He looked at Steve. “You really called Thor in too?”

“Like I said. You were cutting it close. If we needed to split up and search, having an extra car and driver was good strategy.”

“Can I ask what ole’ big bro is doing here?” Tony cut in. He stood from his spot at Clint’s bed and studied the ruddy haired man closer. He noted that Barney had the same eyes as Clint. Like eerily similar.

“You’re not going to like the answer,” Clint responded.

That made Bruce raise a brow to rival Steve’s. Thor took a step further into the room as well.

Clint pulled in a deep breath. “I need your help.” He glanced a Barn who offered a small grin. “We need your help.”

“Doing what?” Bruce asked.

Clint smirked. “Taking down the Russian Mob.”

Four shocked expressions faced him, mouths agape, eyes wide. But Tony recovered quickly and with a moment of consideration declared, “Cool.”

…

“Thanks for coming guys,” Clint greeted. The basement was packed. They’d formulated a plan that morning and realizing it needed some extra troops, Clint had called in the best he knew.

Matt was sitting on a chair behind the table that held Steve’s large map/layout of the plan they’d devised. Danny and Luke were next to him, matching poses of arms crossed loosely over their chests. Wade was currently under the table, having proclaimed something about seeing it from all angles. Bobbi, Lance, Skye, Lincoln, Jemma, and Leo were on the other side of the table hosting expressions from excitement to worry. He’d called them only an hour ago, glad that it was Saturday and that everyone could make it.

Steve was across from him, Tony and Thor at his sides. Bruce was next to Tony looking a little uncomfortable with the crowd in his lab space.

“I want to warn you up front that what we’re planning to do is dangerous,” Clint went on. “If you want out now, there’s the door.”

“What are we going to be doing, exactly?” Leo asked.

Steve answered, “Sorry, but in order to keep some deniability, we can’t tell you the plan unless you agree.”

Matt nodded, tuning in to legal speak.

“What we can tell you,” Clint replied, “is that you’ll be instrumental in helping us get Natasha out of danger.”

A wave of hushed voices and whispers went out through the group. Jemma raised her hand. “Is this not something the police should handle?”

“It’s not clear right now if the police are on our side for this,” Tony responded. “But we’ve kept things within legal bounds.”

That was mostly true. They were bending the rules for sure.

The group went silent before a voice from under the table said, “I’ll follow you to the edges of this great flat Earth, Clint Barton.”

“Thanks, Wade.” Clint turned to the rest of the group, brow raised. It took a moment but Bobbi stepped forth next.

“She deserves to see the look again,” she told him, not caring if no one else understood. “I’m in.”

Lance groaned. “Looks like I’m in too.”

Luke and Danny exchanged a look with Matt who nodded. “We’ll help in any way we can.”

Skye grinned. “I was looking for something to give my mom an aneurysm anyway. Count me in.”

“Me too,” Lincoln added after a beat.

Jemma and Leo looked like they’d rather be on another planet until Tony popped up and said, “You get to help us science.”

They nodded after confirming with each other.

Clint grinned at the assembled team. Only one missing was Barney who was working on getting another meeting set up with Mikhail and Konstantin. But he was proud to have gotten them all there in the basement lab, away from Phil’s ear, and united with one goal in mind.

He nodded to Steve who started to explain the plan and everyone’s roles in it.

“We’re taking down Red Street,” he began. There was a small gasp and some other expressions of amazement and disbelief. A “You’ve got to be kidding me,” escaped Leo’s lips.

Steve went on. “There are three phases. Phase one, Clint and his brother, Barney, infiltrate the street by pretending to make a deal with two Russian heavies. Natasha will be there.”

 

* * *

 

The bar was seedy and rough but it was nothing compared to the storage room in the back. Clint was half expecting a meat locker. Barney was silent next to him, eyes scanning the maze of storage shelves as if looking for a weapon or a place to hide. It had Clint’s hair standing on end again. But they had a plan and he knew they needed to stick to it. He just prayed Barn knew that as well.

They walked to the far back of the storage room where Mikhail and Konstantin were sitting at a rickety card table. Natasha was sandwiched between them, eyes wide as soon as she saw Clint.

<Czar said to take out Con Man,> she spat at the two men on either side of her.

<Oh, we will,> Mikhail replied. <Boy’s the insurance.>

<Let him go,> she growled. <He has nothing to do with->

<His freedom is up to you, Natalia,> Konstantin threatened. He stood up and shook hands with Barney. “You do your part. We do ours.” He fished out a thick envelope, tossed it onto the card table. “Hand over the boy.”

“Hand over the money,” Barn countered. He squeezed his hand on Clint’s shoulder, cueing the younger boy to whimper, to look even more afraid than he felt.

It got a cruel grin from Konstantin. The man picked up the money, took one step, two. Barn pushed Clint forward as a distraction then socked Konstantin in the jaw.  

 

* * *

 

Steve picked up a marker, twirling the cap in his hands. “Once the trade off is made, Barn knocks out the guys, and ties them up.”

 

* * *

 

Nat threw her elbow out sharp, hitting Mikhail squarely in the stomach, causing him to double over. She followed it up with a punch to the face. As she turned she nearly ran into Barn.

“That was my job,” he argued.

“You’re welcome,” she answered.

Clint ran up to her, tossing his brother a bit of rope to tie the goons’ hands. “We’re taking out Red Street,” he told Nat.

“What? Are you crazy? Clint they’ll-“

“We have a plan, Nat.” He looked at her for a long time, falling desperately into her green eyes. He’d missed them, missed her. And like magic she was reaching out to him, pulling him into a tight hug. He held her for what felt like hours, drowning in the familiar scent of her shampoo, of her skin, of her.

Her voice was so quite if it hadn’t been right next to his ear he’d have missed it. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any of it. Clint, I never meant…”

He just held her tighter. “It’s okay, Nat.”

Barn cleared his throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but we have a plan to get done.” He tossed a device to Clint.

 

* * *

 

Steve continued. “Nat gets suited with a wire to get the Czar to confess running an organized crime ring.” He glanced up to Leo and Jemma, “We’ll need one that has good audio but can’t be seen. Not taking any chances.” He paused. “I get the feeling this falls under your jurisdiction.”

They nodded in understanding.

 

* * *

 

“What’s this?” Nat asked.

“A wire,” Clint answered. “Jemma and Leo made it. The mic’s designed to blend into your skin tone using some kind of chemically activated panels or something… it’s invisible. The cord runs down your shirt.” He tried so hard not to blush on the end. Nat patted his cheek and hooked up the wire, watching her reflection in a polished pan. The mic slowly turned to the color of her skin. She grinned, feeling for the first time in months that she had hope.

Barn taped up Mikhail and Konstantin’s mouths.

“Time to go,” Clint announced once Nat had the mic in place. He grabbed her hand and started for the back door. He glanced back expecting to see Barn following, but found the space empty save for Mikhail and Konstantin. The envelope was missing too.

Clint frowned but wasn’t surprised. He’d known deep down that Barn would take the money and run.

It didn’t help it sting any less.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! Violence, child endangerment, gunplay, language, and mob interactions.

**Chapter 28**

 

“They then head off to the palace.” Steve marked an X on the map through where Natasha and her uncle live. “While en route, Clint will send out the signal to activate phase two.” Steve looked up to where the group was spread out around him. “That’s you guys. Team Defenders, which is Danny, Luke, and,” he looked under the table, “you, Wade.” He stood back up. “You’ll take the south end of Red Street. Team Shield, Lance, Skye, Lincoln, and Bobbi, you take the north. Thor, Tony, and I will take the connecting street. We’ll all have various fireworks. The plan: to be nothing but a ruthless distraction.

 

* * *

 

Wade watched in wonder as the flame from the lighter in Danny’s hand ignited the paper wick on the end of his sparkler. Soon colored fire was shooting from the end and Wade felt excitement consume him.

“I need more of these!” he nearly shouted.

Luke and Danny exchanged a look. But Luke handed Wade a handful of sparklers and the lighter anyway.

“You sure about this?” Danny whispered as soon as Wade had a wad of them lit.

“Cap said a distraction. He’s the best there is.”

Wade laugh maniacally as he took off down the street, colorful sparks flowing behind him.

Danny and Luke joined him, each with a set of Roman Candles shooting balls of color into the street.

It didn’t take long for the members of Red Street to notice, and even shorter for the Czar’s lackeys to start acting.

<What are you doing?>

<Crazy kids!> they yelled, coming into the street.

“Run faster, Wade,” Danny called out.

“Run crazier,” Luke corrected, narrowly missing a gang member with his firework.

 

* * *

 

“You’ll need to get as many of the Czar’s goons to follow you to the meeting point of the street.” Steve marked another X in the center of the street outside of the Czar’s house. “They’ll be armed but can’t fire unless the Czar gives the order – don’t give the non-paid-off police reason to come investigate, right? And he won’t be able to give the order because Clint, Nat, and Barn will be keeping him busy.”

 

* * *

 

Skye felt her adrenaline pumping, heard her heartbeat in her ears. Lance and Bobbi were both grinning ear to ear with exhilaration beside her. Only Lincoln looked a little apprehensive. But he took a sparkler and Roman Candle in his hand anyway. Lance lit the paper ends and they took off running on the count of three. They yelled and whooped, drawing the Russians out of their holes in the backstreets and shady apartments.

“Catch me if you can,” Bobbi shouted, blowing a kiss to a mean Russian standing next to a door jamb. It didn’t escape her notice that he had a gun slung over his shoulder, nor that that gun was being raised up.

“We’ve got three on our tail,” Skye shouted.

“We’ll need more than-” But Bobbi was cut off when a bullet grazed her arm.

 

* * *

 

“But just in case, Tony has whipped up some pretty sweet body armor. “

 

* * *

 

“You okay?” Lance asked hurriedly, lighting up another sparkler.

“I’m fine. That armor of Tony’s really does work.”

“You’ll have a bruise,” Lincoln added. Bobbi shrugged it off and glanced back to see the man following her, looking pissed that his shot was ineffective.

“The good news is, we got some more to follow us,” Skye observed.

“Only in this case would that be good news,” Lincoln mumbled.

 

* * *

 

“The goal is to round up the bad guys to make it easy for the police – who will be waiting here” another X, “to press charges of illegal firearm possession.”

“How do the police get there?” Skye asked.

Steve turned to Bruce who just nodded. “That’s being taken care of.”

 

* * *

 

Anxiety and fear were clawing at Bruce’s gut like some kind of beast. He knew he had to stay home so he could tell Phil and then do his part of the plan. But waiting, not knowing if the others were okay, was making him feel sick. Which was kind of a good thing since that’s what he was supposed to be faking.

He tossed off the blankets he’d been under on the couch and took a few steps towards Phil’s office. He knocked on the doorframe, wiped his sweaty palms on his pants.

“You feeling better, Bruce,” Phil asked by way of greeting, turning to face the teen.

“I will in a minute,” Bruce muttered. He took an envelope out of his flannel shirt pocket and held it out to Phil.

“What’s this?”

“They’re not at a movie,” Bruce explained.

Phil looked positively lost not to mention worried.

“Read it. Meet me outside in five minutes.”

“Bruce, what are-”

“It’s all in the letter, Phil.” He paused. “Sorry.”

Phil looked ready to protest more, but Bruce turned to leave the house, swallowing heavily as he trudged through the snow towards Police Chief Ross’ house.

The beast clawing at his insides threatened to crawl out of his body as he raised his fist to knock on the door. Bruce closed his eyes, begging the monster that was his fear, his anger, his rage, to settle down.

Betty answered the door, and he felt the creature still.

“Bruce?”

He took a deep breath.

“Hi, Betty. Is your dad here?”

She nodded, looking almost as nervous as Bruce felt.

Precious time passed as Bruce waited on the doorstep for the Chief. He could hear arguing from inside. A door closed behind him and he knew Phil was done reading.

Ross marched towards the front door. “What do you want?” His lack of tolerance for Bruce was evident.

“Sir,” the teen started, searching around the man for Betty’s face peeking around the corner of the living room. “I’m here to inform you that there is an incident going down on Reddington Street tonight. You’ll need to pull your closest and most trusted men and head down there immediately.”

Ross crossed his arms over his chest. He looked massive from where Bruce was standing. “And why should I do anything you say? You’re an emotional freak with dangerous tendencies.”

“Dad!” Betty scolded.

“It’s okay,” Bruce settled her. He turned to Ross. “Please trust me on this. There are lives at stake.”

Phil appeared by his side. “He’s right, Chief.” He held out the letter.

Ross snatched it up, read through it. Frowned.

“We need your help,” Bruce pleaded.

Ross narrowed his eyes. But after a beat he sighed, grabbing his keys, jacket, and gun belt from beside the door. “Betty, tell your mother I’ll be out late.”

…

“They’re here!” Tony exclaimed. “Aww, Brucie, old pal, you’ve done it again.”

Steve smiled at the sight of the cops all lined up outside of the Czar’s home. He ducked to the right to avoid a Roman Candle offshoot from Thor’s firework. Their tails seemed to slow down, catching sight of the cars menacingly parked. No lights were flashing – no need to give away they were cops…yet.

Suddenly there were officers in all directions, going after the gun-toting goons, arresting them, taking them to the ground. Steve was beaming ear-to-ear, right up until the cuffs were slapped around his wrists.

…

“Just get him to confess to running the operation, Nat, and then you’re free,” Clint reminded her.

She nodded, but didn’t take her eyes off of the front door. She knew once she entered that Clint would be in serious danger. So would she. She took a deep breath in and slid the key into the lock, shivering as the tumblers fell into place. She opened the door, letting it creak, letting the Czar know she was home.

Clint glanced back at the street. He could just make out dancing lights of sparklers way down on the north side. Soon the place would be crawling with cops.

Nat pulled him inside, not missing the way she could feel his heart beating quickly against his chest. Hers was thumping away in counter time.

A light flicked on.

The Czar stood up from his chair in the living room.

Nat went pale realizing for the first time that she was seeing the Czar.

This was not Ivan.

There was no trace of hope for her redeeming herself. She’d gone with Mikhail and Konstantin on the Czar’s orders to eliminate the Con Man at their meeting. But with no Mikhail or Konstantin and instead a small blonde, it was obvious she’d failed.

While Ivan might have let it slide a little, the Czar would not.

And by the harder than diamond look in his eyes, Natasha knew, she was facing the Czar.

<You bring back another stray?> he asked her, voice cold.

She’d defied him. Now she brought an outsider into his home? The little brat was going to pay.

<The Con Man’s brother,> she tried, taking a calming breath. She could feel Clint remaining perfectly still beside her. <Why lose a grifter?>

The Czar frowned deeply, stepping closer to her. <That was not our agreement.>

<I made a call in the field.>

He struck her, hand meeting flesh with a terrifying _smack_.

“Hey!” Clint screamed, unable to hold himself in check. The Czar flashed him a look then raised his hand.

“Ivan!” Natasha called, keeping his hand from colliding with Clint’s face. He didn’t look at her, instead sizing Clint up. Nat licked her lips. <He could be beneficial to the operation.>

<In what ways, Natalia?>

<We still need funding. Guns, drugs, they require money.>

He still didn’t look at her. His eyes bore into Clint’s. The boy refused to back down. He’d grown up with abusive men, had cowered under them for too long. Natasha’s life depended on him staying strong.

<Red Street’s last con man was a disappointment. What makes this one different?>

Nat searched desperately for an answer, for some kind of spin she could put on the situation. But her pause was too long. The Czar turned his hard gaze towards her.

<Foolish girl. Vanko, Blonsky, Rumlow. They all told me of the little blonde boy, the one who looked so devastated at your words. Now why would that be, Natalia? Why would some boy care about what you think of him,> he took a step closer to Clint, <if he did not first value your feelings?>

Nat closed her eyes. <He’s good at archery. He could be trained to kill. Silently.>

The Czar considered this. Then an awful grin spread over his face. <Spoken like a true leader, Natalia.>

He snapped out and caught Clint’s jaw. “My operation could use young sniper.”

Clint’s eyes were wide and wild. It hit Nat then that he hadn’t understood any of the conversation that had taken place. But a glint came to his stormy blue eyes and around the Czar’s hand he whispered, “Your operation?”

Nat understood instantly. They had their confession. A sigh of relief nearly escaped her. But noise from outside overtook her senses. She could see the light of fireworks, hear the barking of gun fire, the yelling, the engines of police cars.

<What the hell?> the Czar spat. He released Clint’s face and stormed towards the door. Nat followed closely behind, anxious to see how well Clint’s little band of merry men had done.

The sight amazed her. Officers were taking down long time members of Red Street, tacking them to the ground, slamming them into walls. Guns were being loaded up left and right into a truck of a police cruiser. She saw a bag of coke be taken out of someone’s pocket. A grin touched her lips.

“No, wait. Stop!” Clint yelled from beside her. She followed his eyes to see Steve, Tony, and Thor being cuffed with the rest of the gang members. Clint pushed past her and the Czar, running towards them. But he only got a few feet before a hand jerked him back.

The cold steel of a muzzle pressed to his temple sent a shiver down his spine. The rough skin of the Czar’s hands had him remembering his own father, had him scared of the punishment that was on its way.

“Let men go or boy gets bullet to head!” the Czar hollered.

All eyes swiveled back to the pair. The cops drew their guns in near unison, all aimed at the Czar. But it was a hostage situation. They wouldn’t fire.

“It’s over, Ivan,” Chief Ross announced through a bullhorn. “Let the boy go now.”

The Czar pressed the gun tighter to Clint’s head. A whimper escaped Clint’s lips. He’d been hit, slapped, abused so hard his hearing had vanished. But all of that fear, that anger, frustration, was nothing compared to the gun at his head. His father had been drunk. Bruises from that healed, time put small Band-Aids on those wounds. He could heal from it. But not this.

Because he knew the Czar would pull the trigger. And that scared him to his core.

“Let him go, Ivan,” Natasha urged, stepping onto the stoop next to him. She reached to put a hand on his arm, but the Czar elbowed her off, jostling the gun against Clint’s head.

A terrified, “No!” rang out from the crowd. Natasha watched frozen as Phil pushed past the swarm of cops. “Please, don’t! No!” He was hauled back by a pair of officers. “Let my son go!” The tears were evident in his voice.

“Let men go. Then you get boy.”

“You have until the count of three to let the kid go, Ivan,” Ross interjected.

“I’ll shoot him before you even begin counting,” the Czar countered.

Clint felt a tear slip down his cheek.

“Don’t!” Phil screamed. “Let him go. Please!”

<Ivan, it’s over,> Nat breathed.

“Let the kid go now.”

“Let men go first!”

 

* * *

 

Night was clinging heavy to the air around them, tensions running high. They were about to take off to the bar where they were meeting Mikhail and Konstantin. Barn looked rattled, to say the least.

“What about when all of this doesn’t work?” he asked, shutting his car door and starting the engine.

Clint stared out the window. “That’s why there are eyes in the sky.”

 

* * *

 

Barn had put the tranq dart in James’ hand, had told him it was only a precaution. James had watched from a rooftop across the street from the Czar. He saw the yelling, the fireworks. The police. He saw Natasha emerge with the Czar, Clint trailing behind. He saw the Czar capture Clint by the collar. He saw Phil’s desperation, the police Chief’s infuriating insistency. He saw everything from his rooftop, through a set of cross hairs. He lined up the shot, knowing deep down that this was as close to revenge as he could get.

He’d take it.

The dart landed squarely in the Czar’s neck.

It was a messy blur after that. Police rushing in, Clint being hurried immediately into Phil’s arms. Natasha being loaded up into a cruiser, no doubt for questioning.

The Czar’s body was hauled unceremoniously into the back of an ambulance.

The police drove away, cars full of offenders. The other vehicles followed. Soon the street was quiet. Empty.

That’s when Bucky Barnes slipped down the fire escape and disappeared into the foggy, snowy evening.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: mob interactions, violence, child endangerment   
> The only other warning here is I have no formal knowledge of police work/ procedure. Please just go with it.

**Scene 29**

“This sounds like madness,” Lincoln argued. “There are a thousand things that could go wrong.”

Lincoln,” Clint started. “My best friend is in danger. So’s my brother. And honestly so is everyone on that street. I know this is asking a lot. But if this works, we’ll have given them everything they’ve lost hope for.”

Lincoln didn’t move, but his eyes showed he was at war.

“You always talk about in history how important it is for people to try harder to help their neighbors,” Clint continued. “Well this is how we help ours.”

“But why us?”

“Because we know. Because we can.”

Lincoln tossed it around before settling on, “Fine.”

 

* * *

 

He never thought he’d end up in the back of a police car, hands cuffed behind his back. And Lincoln had one hell of an imagination. On the plus side, Skye was next to him. And he could barely stand how pleased she looked with herself.

“We did it,” she murmured.

An officer slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

Lincoln rested his head against the passenger window. His eyes caught a flicker of movement: a curtain being pulled back from a window. A thin woman with an infant in her arms peered out into the darkness. Lincoln watched tears come to her eyes, a smile spread over her face. She kissed her baby’s head, letting the curtain fall.  

Lincoln felt a tiny grin tug at his lips.

He’d helped save her.

Clint had been right.

 

They arrived at the police station and were directed to a holding cell. Danny, Luke, and Wade were also there. They’d passed Steve, Tony, and Thor in the hall.

It didn’t take long for the cops to call them back one at a time into an interrogation room. Lincoln felt his throat tightening as he was sat down in a chair.

The door opened and in walked Ross. “Do you know what kind of man power this little debacle is going to take? And on top of it I’ve got a dozen teenagers to process.” He opened a file. “Procession and detonation of fireworks without a permit, disturbing the peace, plus one of you brats fired a tranquilizer dart during a hostage situation.”

“Wasn’t me,” Lincoln defended. “I was already in cuffs.”

Ross hummed deeply, almost threateningly.

The door opened and an officer poked her head in. “The squad car with the two suspects from the bar just pulled in. And the Romanov girl is in room three.”

Ross nodded and stood up. “Thank you, Gabby.” He glanced back at Lincoln, still sitting, hands cuffed up on the table. “I’ve got a bigger fish than you to fry right now. But don’t think I won’t forget about you and your friends.” He closed the door roughly behind him.

Lincoln let out a breath, praying silently that the last part of the plan held up.

…

Natasha sat stock still in interrogation room three. The rest of her life rested on this moment. She needed to testify against Ivan, get the police chief to understand the magnitude of what had transpired. It was up to her send Red Street to prison…while keeping herself, Clint, and his friends out.

Chief Ross opened the door to the interrogation room. He locked her in a hard gaze as he lowered himself into the seat across from her.

“Natasha Romanov.”

“Chief Ross.” She kept her voice even, neutral.

“You’ve probably guessed that I’ve got a few questions.”

“And I’ll be more than happy to give you the answers.”

Ross opened a file folder, tapped a pen on the table. He opened his mouth to say something, but Nat cut him off. “However, if you want more: names, addresses, buyers, sellers, the entire contents of Ivan’s little black book, I’ve been advised to offer you a deal.”

“Advised?”

Nat let a tiny smirk touch her lips.  

* * *

 

“And last but not least, Matt organizes a deal that makes sure we all get to go home.” Steve capped the marker, leaving it on the table. 

* * *

 

“I’ll give you every criminal dealing Red Street has ever had,” Nat went on. “Only thing I ask for in return is that you let Clint and his friends go, drop their charges, erase the arrest off their records.”

Ross tented his hands, letting his elbows rest on the table.

“Really by comparison, did they hurt anything?” Natasha asked. “They told you to meet them at a spot where they’d rounded up a vicious gang. They let you take over the procedure. What are some fireworks and noise complaints compared to arms trafficking?”

It took long precious moments, but eventually Ross nodded. “You’ve got a deal.” He leaned back in his chair. “Let’s start with you. Where do you fit in to this mess?”

Nat wet her lips, dipping her head as she collected her thoughts. “My parents actively rejected Ivan and his rule of Red Street. They encouraged others to do likewise. Ivan didn’t like that. So he had them killed. House fire. No doubt he paid off the arson investigator – that comes back into play, by the way.”

Ross raised a brow. He waved his hand for her to continue.

“As a final fuck you to my parents, Ivan took me in with the intention of making me the heir to Red Street. That upset a lot of people since it bumped them down the line to the throne.”

“Did they make threats against you?”

“Not at first. I think they figured Ivan would get bored of me, kill me off. That or I’d run away.”

“Why didn’t you? Run away?”

“Red Street might not have been fond of me, but Ivan was. He kept a close eye on me. Even had spies and tattletales at my school. But eventually they got tired of waiting.” She pointed to the open file on the table. “Mug shots in there?”

Ross nodded and handed her a slim stack. She sorted through until she found who she was looking for.

“Mikhail Kochenkov and Konstantin Shishko. They weren’t first in line, but they were up there. They’re also stupid enough to try something.”

“Like what?” Ross removed a pen from his jacket pocket to take notes.

Nat hesitated. If she told Ross about the fire at SHIELD she’d be admitting to withholding evidence. Then there was the annoying point about how she’d gotten that footage.

It had been running around her mind the whole time she’d sat thinking of what to tell the cops. Loki was somehow involved in this. Best she could figure was he still needed whatever it was in Fury’s office. So he’d tipped off Mikhail and Konstantin that Natasha usually spent time cutting class in the back lab. They set it on fire, the alarm went off, the school evacuated, Nat put out the fire, and Loki would sneak in and fetch whatever he was after. But Natasha had been in class taking a history test that day. The lab lit and the school caught fire.

And even Loki has his limits.

After he realized how wrong his plan went, he set about making up for it. In his own way. He told her about the footage. The parts where he questioned her and Clint’s relationship could possibly have been to see how much damage he’d caused, how much danger he was in even just by association. That or he was calculating his own life risk. If Clint really was nothing but a friend and was in danger, than it was possible that danger spread to something as nominal as “classmate.”

Ross was still looking at her expectantly.

“The arson investigator?”

Ross nodded.

“I believe the same one might have investigated the fire at SHIELD.”

Ross stilled and pinned her under a weighty gaze. “That’s a heavy accusation, Miss Romanov.”

“I’m aware. But I did a little digging of my own after the fire. I found footage on a blackbox server of Mikhail tossing a cigarette butt into the lab window on the south side of the school. It could’ve easily landed in chemicals or old lab coats.”

Ross put a hand up to stop her. “You withheld this information from the police?”

“I’m telling you now, aren’t I? And in any case, I wasn’t sure who to trust on the force. Ivan had dirty cops working for him.”

“I’m going to need those names.”

“And you’ll get them. Ivan’s black book is in a locked drawer at his desk in the den. In a secret compartment. The combination is 19 22 52.”

Ross wrote down the numbers. “You really believe these two men were willing to burn an elementary school to the ground just to go after you?”

“No.” She bit her lip, tried her best to look sheepish. “That lab is where I skipped class. They would’ve used the fire as a message, maybe to scare me into skipping town. But I’d have put the fire out in time…had I been there.”

“And where were you?”

“Taking a test. My teacher can vouch for that.”

Ross wrote a few more notes before continuing. “So where does the teenage firework cadre come in?”

“You’ll have to ask Clint Barton about that.”

“You didn’t organize it?”

She shook her head, smirking. “He came to help save me all on his own.”

Ross looked ready to comment, but a knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” the police chief grumbled.

“Social Worker is here for Miss Romanov,” an officer announced.

Nat’s eyes widened. Ross noticed.

“Didn’t think about that, did you?”

Natasha shook her head, red curls brushing her shoulders with the movement. “No.”

…

“…the stupidest, most hair-brained, most dangerous stunt you could ever pull and I’m daring each and everyone of you to tell me just what the hell you were thinking!” Phil knew his face was red, but dammit, he was entitled to that. The boys all had their heads bowed from their various positions in the living room, including Thor. “You endangered not only yourselves but,” he turned to Clint, “all of your friends. You put their lives in danger! Knowingly. Willingly!”

“We offered them a chance to back out,” Tony argued, tone much quieter than it would have been normally. They’d messed up and knew it. But they knew it going in.

“Like they were ever going to?” Phil replied. “They did teach you peer pressure in health class. I know they did. I work at the school, remember?” He ran a hand down his face. “They were shot at, for Christ sake. With bullets.”

“We had armor,” Tony again countered.

“You were arrested.”

“The charges were dropped.”

“Okay then, genius, look me in the eye and tell me there was zero chance of anything, and I mean anything, in your plan going wrong.”

“Bruce and I didn’t exactly run the numbers, but…twelve percent?”

Phil glowered at him.

“We had contingencies in place,” Steve offered.

“That’s not the point. The point is you lied. You told me you were going to see a movie and instead I’m ushered _in a police car_ to the edge of town to watch you get arrested. And if that wasn’t bad enough, one of you had a _gun_ pointed at your head.”

Clint’s head lowered further, shoulders hunched.

Phil ran a hand down his face and sat on the coffee table with a deep sigh. “I know why you did it. And even though I shouldn’t say this, there’s a part of me that so goddamn proud _that_ you did it.”

Steve flashed a tiny grin; Tony nodded acceptingly; Clint’s eyes turned slightly upward.

“But all of your are grounded. For six months, maybe the rest of your lives; I’m still deciding.”

Bruce agreed with a nod. Thor solemnly accepted the punishment.

“There will be a strict nine o’ clock curfew. And any weekend activities will have to be cleared by me a week in advance. You’ll use all your newfound free time volunteering: picking up trash, shoveling snow, giving old people baths. I don’t care. You want to help people. Fine. I’ll let you help them. But the first sign of criminal involvement and you’re coming right back home. Understood?”

They all nodded, looking acquiescent.

“Good. Clean up, go to bed.”

They left in a tight group, as if they were permanently banded to one another. Phil thought maybe they were. But he wasn’t quite done speaking yet on the matter. “Clint, wait a moment, please.”

The youngest boy took a few steps back into the living room. Phil told him to take a seat as he himself sank back down onto the coffee table.

“Melinda was very upset with what you did.”

“She’s kicking me out of home school, isn’t she?”

Phil shook his head. “Once the situation was explained to her better, she calmed down. She was impressed with your initiative and strategy in the end.”

“Strategy was Steve.”

“Not the point.” He sighed. “She’s not happy about the situation. But she knows you offered a chance for the others to reject their involvement, and your reasons for doing it. She wanted me to tell you she’ll try and explain that to the other’s parents. But they might not be as understanding.”

Clint raised his head.

“You could lose friends from this, Clint. I’m not saying it will happen, but I’m not saying it won’t. I’m just warning you.”

The boy nodded.

“Now,” Phil began, “I’ve berated and punished you. It’s time to switch.” He slid into the spot next to Clint on the couch and threw an arm over his shoulders. He kissed the top of his son’s head and turned to face him better. “ _I was so scared, Clint_ ,” he signed. “ _I thought I was going to lose you_.”    

“ _I was scared too, Phil,”_ Clint admitted. “ _Really scared.”_

Phil pulled him in for a firm hug. They stayed that way for a long moment, just clinging to each other, taking comfort in the sound of their heartbeats. 

“She’s worth it, though,” Clint stated in a whisper. 

Phil just held tighter. Because Natasha now belonged to the state. And there was a good chance Clint wouldn’t see her again. At least for a long time.

 

…

 

Skye watched her mother take a distracted sip of coffee. She asked her mom if she was okay, taking a bite of cereal. It felt so strange to be eating cereal like it was any other morning, like she hadn’t taken down a criminal gang last night.

“Fine, Skye.” Melinda took another sip. Then, “Skye, dear, how would you feel about a sister?”


	30. Chapter 30

**Scene 30**

_Six months later_

 

“Losing your touch there, Barton.”

“Oh whatever, Skye. I hit your chest target at least a dozen times. The sensor has to be broken.”

“Maybe you just missed,” Lance countered.

“He doesn’t miss,” Natasha insisted as she returned her laser tag equipment to its proper place. She took hold of Clint’s hand once he had secured his gear and together they walked out of the arena.

“Are we not going to talk about how you cheated, Nat?” Bobbi asked, joining the group.

“Cheated?” But there was a glint in Nat’s eye.

“You stalked Lance.”

“He deserved it.”

“I did not!” Lance protested.

Clint rolled his eyes. “C’mon, we better round up Jemma and Leo. No doubt they’re absorbed in Surgeon Simulator again.”

“Yeah, and Melinda said we needed to meet her at the front door at six. It’ll take at least ten minutes to get there,” Bobbi added, looking off of Lance’s watch.

The group wound their way towards the arcade to find the science geeks. Clint figured they were having withdrawals being away from school for summer break. Good thing they started class tomorrow.

“I _am_ being careful, Jemma,” Leo complained.

“You’ll tear the pericardium. Let me-”

“No. I’m the engineer. You’re the biologist. I control the machine. You tell me what to operate on.”

“Why are you so bullheaded. Oh look, there you go, you’ve cut the poor chap’s heart.”

“Well at least I didn’t rupture his spleen.”

“That was one time!”

Skye cleared her throat, causing both teens to jump. “Time to wrap it up, nerds.”

It was almost fifteen minutes before they all were through Xandar and meeting up with the waiting Melinda May who took them all back to her house for parents and guardians to pick up their children.

Leo and Jemma left first followed by Bobbi and then Lance. Clint sat on the front porch with Natasha, both enjoying the warm summer air. It was a clear night. One Clint knew Thor would be spending stargazing with Jane.

A lot had changed since that day in February. Natasha had found a home with Melinda, but was still adjusting to family life. And there were nightmares too. Melinda had discreetly set up counseling appointments for Natasha. They seemed to be helping. But Clint still got late night texts from her asking if he was awake. For her, he always was.

Steve’s car came into view (a birthday present from Phil – and Tony.) He and Peggy had gone on a double date with Tony and Pepper. Bruce had stayed home in the lab, working on a dual credit science project with Betty.  

Clint kissed Nat on the cheek and told her good night. He’d see her tomorrow at school along with the rest of the gang (including Lincoln who’d been at summer camp. Clint knew, though, that the reasoning behind that decision came with a little bias against him. Lincoln’s family didn’t like the two to hang out outside of class. They weren’t completely over the whole Russian Mob takedown thing.)

“Sleep tight,” he told her.

Natasha grinned. “No promises.”

“I’m here if you need me.” He pecked her cheek again and turned to the waiting car.

Steve, Tony, Bruce, and Thor had started school already and all had homework. Clint took the time to help Phil clean up their dinner dishes.

“You have fun with the group?” Phil asked.

“Mmmhmm.”

“Ready for school to start tomorrow?”

“I think so. I’ve got everything I’ll need.”

“Not quite everything.”

Clint raised a brow, watching as Phil dried his hands and disappeared into his office/bedroom. He came out holding a long package covered in purple wrapping paper.  

Clint’s eyes went wide. “Is that?”

“Open it, find out.”

Clint tore at the paper confirming his suspicions. Inside was a lovely black bow. And most importantly it had a forty-pound draw weight.

“Trip called last week. He said your strength has increased enough to move up to the advanced class.” Phil ruffled Clint’s hair. “I told you those pains from your growth spurt would be worth it.”

Clint beamed. He’d shot up four inches in the past three months and put on almost ten pounds of muscle. And now he had a new bow to work it all with.

“I’m gonna text Nat,” he exclaimed and rocketed up the stairs.

Phil smiled, taking time to tell the older boys good night before he retreated to his office. He’d been playing a lot of catch up lately, getting the new SHIELD Elementary in order. He was the new principal after all.

He caught sight of the picture of Jude and Audrey that had been rescued from his desk after the fire. A corner had water damage, but the photo was otherwise in tact. The shot of the boys and him at the park last week had finally gotten a frame as well. He picked up both of them and carried them over to his briefcase for work. His family. All. Completed.

And he honestly couldn’t be happier if he tried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks. That's it. That's the end of Island of Misfit Boys.  
> I want to thank all of you so much for reading this story, for reading this series. I had no idea what to expect when I first started posting it almost 2 years ago. I'd also like to say that I recognize that this third installment had a much different tone than its predecessors - a darker tone if anything. But I hope the happy ending makes up for it.  
> (Also, while I make no promises, I've played around with the idea of a one-shot in this universe about Clint and Nat going to prom.)  
> But thank you, again, to everyone who stuck with it. You all are a legion of reading, commenting, bookmarking, and Kudos-ing machines! :) 
> 
> In other news, keep an eye out this week for some one-shots, prompt-fulfillments, and the like as April 11-17 marks Clintasha week on Tumblr. Additionally, I plan to post something special on Wednesday. (Mwhahahaha) 
> 
> So, for the last time, thank you for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and Kudos-ing. I appreciate and love each and every one. 
> 
> Until next time,  
> \- Z-socks.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back, everyone! This is the 3rd and final installment of Island of Misfit Boys. You know the drill, check the notes for additional warnings, two chapters posted every Sunday, and buckle up for one hell of a ride. (This thing is over 60K words!) 
> 
> As usual there are probably a bunch of mistakes. Sorry. I researched what I could but I'm not a doctor, lawyer, or professional in any way. 
> 
> On with the show!


End file.
